


John says not, but I think it will do very well.

by kitty_kat_khan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Attempted Kidnapping, Awkward Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Confessions, Cuddling, Drug Use, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Friends to more, Greg is a good guy, Greg ships it, Hospitals, Humor, Idiots in Love, John Watson Returns to Baker Street, John can be a bit of a tease, John is an idiot, Loss, Lots of Tea, Love Confessions, M/M, Many apologies, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mutual Pining, Mycroft cares sometimes, Mycroft eating pastries, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Panic Attacks, Partial Nudity, Playing House, Post Season 3, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Sherlock's Violin, Slow Build, Smoking, Snogging in armchairs, Tea, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Whiskey & Scotch, character injury, parenting is hard, sherlock feels things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:49:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 45,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6663100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitty_kat_khan/pseuds/kitty_kat_khan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock gets off the plane, he is faced with an empty flat and a life without his best friend. Until something happens that gives him a chance to be the man he always hoped he could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Settling In

**Author's Note:**

> This entire work was written based on a few scattered shorts, chapter by chapter. It is, essentially, a first draft copy. I posted it this way in order to overcome my fear of sharing my work. There are many points where the rough edges of my storytelling are far from smoothed, but I am happy to share my first ever complete fanfiction, with all its imperfections. I do hope you enjoy it.  
> With love - kitty_kat_khan

Uncertainty is difficult for the most patient. For Sherlock, it was agony.

      It had been a scant few weeks since he was helped off the learjet that was meant to take him to his ruin. He stepped into the runway, hallucinating about love and hate, confident in his genius; but in reality he was trapped in the endless cycle of the addict and the muse.

   And it had all been for John. Years of sobriety, a relatively clean rap sheet...all thrown away for his best friends happiness with the pull of a trigger.  
Sherlocks sacrifice had been the greatest of his life. Even greater than the years spent pulling apart Moriarty's network, because at least then he could convince himself it was for the love of the work as much as the protection of his friends. But this had all been done without a thought to himself. A real, selfless, spur-of the moment action that would assure John and Mary the life they both wanted.

As a result, he was left in perfect misery.

     The idea of being sent to finish out his final mission was certainly not the worst fate he could face. Not when he had the drugs to cushion the finale. But then came the face of his old nemesis, back from the dead and taunting him, and he found a reason to live. Albeit, too late to stop that delicious dose from surging through his veins. When he sobered up and discovered that the image of moriarty was a hoax by his own brother to keep him from a death sentence, he wished he could turn back to the needle for comfort. He wished he had the courage to tell John the reason he had done what he had. He wished that he hadn't done the one spectacularly stupid thing that would ensure that he would be alone forever.

 

 ***

 

  
      The first week back at Baker Street was the longest. The flat was too empty. All that time away in prison had left the place feeling colder; haunted by the ghosts of happier times. Sherlock immediately took to smoking inside constantly, ashtrays filled with stinking butts crowding the mantlepiece, the desktop, the window sills. It kept his hands busy and his mind in order. It gave him something to take off the edge when thoughts turned to a pinpoint of pain and sweet, languid relief from the mundane boredom of his life.

Sometimes he would pick up his phone, resolved to dial John. Maybe send him a text. His hands would tremble, poised over the screen, words tumbling out of his brain. But not a single digit would move. In the end it always ended up flung across the room and settling somewhere among the couch cushions.

           The silence from his friend was most unbearable. Days rolled by, always the same. Sherlock ate little and slept as much. Often it would roll over him at the most unexpected moments, pulling him into it's waiting darkness. Sweet escape for a body that refused to rest.

He would feel his eyes grow heavy, his thoughts fading, his head lolling to the side. Mrs Hudson found him a few times passed out in the oddest places. Face down on the table, sprawled across his chair. Once she discovered him perched in the window frame. She would shake her head and curse John under her breath. Then do her routine sweep to make sure none of his ashtrays were smoking and that his bunsen burner was turned off.

Every nap ended the same. Sherlock would suddenly bolt from sleep like a man falling. His heart would thunder against his ribcage as he struggled to ground himself in the waking moment. A few deep breaths and he would find himself grabbing for the next smoke, a life-raft into the real world.

      Night blended into day and week two rolled passed without him leaving his flat. Still no chirp from his mobile, aside from a few misguided texts from Lestrade checking in, or his overbearing brother.

None of them mattered.

Nothing mattered while the question assaulted Sherlocks brain.

How could John just abandon him like this? How could he simply shake his hand on the tarmac as the planes engines started, and say nothing?

No answer came, and he would fumble for another pack, ashes filling the creases in the floorboards and sticking to the bottoms of his feet.

Mrs Hudson occasionally appeared in the doorways while he was awake.  More often than not it was to scold him over the smell and the mess and the health problems he was giving himself. How could he care? He was ready to die only two weeks before. But now he had to go on living in a world where he was alone. He ignored her, and she would tut and fuss and finally leave after emptying the trays and making him a cup of tea that he claimed he never wanted. But it was empty every time she came back.

  
     Mycroft's car passed outside 221B often. Sherlock would watch him drive past, like a lover circling the neighborhood of his sweetheart. On sunny days the light would glint off the shining black exterior. Sherlock would smirk at his posh older brother and his love of shiny new things. When the rain poured it was like a black shadow passing through the street. The car didn't stop, however, and Sherlock was sure that her preferred it that way. It wasn't until the end of the third week of isolation that Mycroft decided to try and intervene with his brothers behavior.

He left his car out front, idling. He knew the visit would not last long. From what he could see during his routine surveillance of Sherlock's flat, his brother was walking, breathing misery.

        Mrs Hudson brought up tea for the boys. They drank it in silence. Mycroft noticed that his brother had actually decided to dress himself today. A rumpled shirt under a decent suit, and a passable pair of shoes. But he was not open to discussion, and spent the first part of the visit in sour silence. Mycroft gave in and spoke first.

"Have you heard from Doctor Watson?" He asked, his downturned mouth and upturned nose giving him a look of haughty disdain.

Sherlock glowered at him. "No." He answered. "You know I haven't. You see all, don't you? Don't waste my time with stupid questions."

The edges of Mycroft's lips turned further downward, evidence of how uncomfortable a subject that edged close emotions made him.

"I ask, brother mine, because I believe it would do you good. You know. To talk to him."

Sherlock put down  his teacup with a clang and threw himself back into his chair, unkempt curls bouncing around his head like inky coils.

"Do me good, you say?" His right hand dug into his suit pocket to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes."Do me good?"  
       
      He set one between his lips and lit a match. The flame exploded in a tiny ball of fire, sending a cloud of black smoke swirling between them. He dipped his head toward the flame and let it catch the end. His brother watched, taking in the dramatic atmosphere of his brothers anger. Sherlock was thinner than last week. Much thinner. He clearly had eaten very little of the food Mrs Hudson had been bringing up for him, if any. When Sherlock leaned back in his chair, taking a long, slow drag and letting the smoke curl thickly out of his mouth, he finished his thought.

"I believed I was doing good when I saved Watson and his lying, murdering wife from being owned, forever, by that lunatic." He paused for another drag. Mycroft waited.  
"I should be dead. And if I were, then all this would be happening anyway. So why should I put myself between them now? If he does not wish to see me, then who am I to interfere with his choice? It's done. Let him be happy and leave me alone."

Mycrofts featured softened. It was a mere instant, nothing more than a passing shadow of empathy for his brother, but Sherlock saw it. He looked away and smoked in silence.

"Sherlock," He said, "I think that John may be somewhat lost without you."  
Sherlocks eyes flew up, disbelief set in every feature.

"You were his only friend when you met him. And I think, most sincerely, that you still are. But you may be the one who has to reach out."

His face contorted awkwardly as he attempted to give advice on friendship to his brother.

Sherlock twisted deeper into his chair, swallowing whatever feelings he had just forced him to taste. It wasn't much, but Mycroft saw a reaction. That was the best he felt he would get today. He stood, tapping his umbrella on the dusty floor and frowning down at this brother.

"I would like you to consider joining me for lunch, little brother."

Sherlock shook his head and stared off at some point by the fire. The sound of expensive shoes on hollow stairs signaled his exit.

       That night Sherlock found a bottle of scotch stashed under the sink while looking for another pack of cigarettes. He pulled it out from among the chemicals and unused washcloths that John had stored there for when he cleaned the dishes. His thumb rubbed the dusty label and a smile passed over his lips before dissolving into icy indifference.

It was Johns favorite.

He opened the cupboard and pulled out one of the few clean cups in the entire place. Setting it down, he went to the freezer to rummage for ice. He knew John had kept a special tray for ice. John had always kept good things around. Clean cloths, ice, warm jumpers, wood for the fire.

Sherlock shook his head and grabbed the tray, cracking the ice out and letting it fall with a satisfying 'clack' into the glass. Then the liquid amber flowed thickly over them, a promise of stupid forgetfulness. The first drink went down smoothly, and he poured another. And another. Until the night became a painless blur where feelings and murder and babies could not interfere with his existence. He picked up his phone, but he couldn't focus on the screen, swallowing mouthfuls of Scotch alone on the floor until the room went black.


	2. If I pay no mind...

      

       John's world had been completely flipped around, once again. But this time, how was he to go forward?

He could see it. The fury in Sherlocks eyes. The staggering fire that lit his features when he spoke those final words to Magnussen. And the sound of the bullet erupting from his gun, striking down the richest, most powerful man they had ever faced.

A veritable genius of blackmail, collapsing into a heap of expired flesh.

All in sight of guards, special services and his own brother. And after that, he was ready to leave again. He would not even do the courtesy of telling John the truth; that he was actually going off to nothing short of a death-trap.

Why?

John was beside himself at the question. How could Sherlock sacrifice their life together to get back at one man who bested him at his own game? How could he leave him again? Was it like a giant game of Cluedo with much, much higher stakes?

No. That couldn't be it. John had been in too great a state of shock at his actions to properly mark his words. 

"Tell Mary she's safe now."

 

         John sat at his laptop, for what felt like the hundredth night in a row, staring at the screen. Nothing happened. Not anymore. He sipped a scotch he had poured for himself, trying to summon the will to do something. But he wasn't sure what.

His blog sat before him, as it had every night, with a story that he dared not unfold to the world sweeping through his memory. Mary had gone to bed hours ago. He knew she was growing weary of his moodiness and distance, but he couldn't make her understand. He didn't want to. He had barely bothered to notice how much she had been keeping herself distant over the past few weeks. So he sat alone, his finger scrolled down the pad on the keyboard, dragging the screen up to old entries. He spent most nights looking over the novel of adventures that was stored there.

He just felt...empty.

He clicked on one, opening up the comments board at the end of the post. 

    **nj97@londonlife:** Great story, Doctor Watson! Your life must be such an adventure!

      **Dr.of.Mystery:** Always a pleasure to read your stories. Would love to see them published into a book someday.

    **ConsultingDetective221** : Your spelling needs work. And I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to make me sound like some sort of superhuman. You are far too romantic in your ideas, Watson. Perhaps you should read up on the proper method of taking soil samples as well. It might improve the credibility of your work. 

       **Mrs.Hudders:** Nevermind him, John dear. It was a fine story. I know nothing about soil sampling, and I thought it sounded very professional.

       **Consultingdetective221** : Case and point.

 

 John caught himself smiling.

"What an great git." He mumbled to himself in the darkness.

Then his smile faded, and his features sat stern in the blueish glow of the screen. He closed the laptop and stood, looking for his mobile. He'd left it in his jacket in the kitchen. Thickly knitted socks padded across the floor of John and Mary's comfortable townhome.

It was very clean. It was very well kept. It smelled like linens and flowers and there was always food in the fridge. John took note of all these things as he reached his coat, thrown over the back of a chair, and checked the pockets.

'Yes,' he thought, 'It's what I always wanted.' 

He looked around the dark room, noting the lack of chemical burns, body parts, gunshot holes and dirty dishes.

'No dust on the bookshelves or swords on the table. No questionable substances on the countertop. No smells of woodsmoke and almond shampoo and Sherlock's experiments or tea in the afternoon or him shouting at the telly or...or...'

He stopped his list. It was quickly turning to things he didn't want to acknowledge he missed. Deeply missed. A tightness stretched across the breadth of his chest, and he jabbed his hand into the interior pocket. One pain was covered by another as he sliced his hand on a small pocket-knife left open inside. He cursed under his breath and pulled his hand back out. Darkness leaked across his pale palm. He stared at it for a few moments longer than necessary, allowing the questions in his mind to settle.

Why was he still carrying the damn thing around? Did he think he would be running out after some criminal all by himself? 

"Idiot." He spat.

The phone abandoned, he walked himself to the bathroom and shut himself in. 

 

     Morning dawned in a bright, grey way as the sun shone strongly through high clouds above London. John awoke to find himself seated back on the couch, feet tucked under a pillow and a bandaged hand across his face. There was a smell of coffee. He dragged himself upright, running his fingers through his silvering hair and over his weary features. Under the bandage, his palm ached. He would have to have a look at the job he did on himself last night.

Standing, he stretched his arms and chest outward. Stiff. Sore. Tired. Bored.  
He looked around for Mary. Passing the kitchen, the beeper on the coffee machine went off to signal the brew was ready. He was grateful and stopped to pour a cup. 

John grabbed the carafe with his bandaged hand and nearly dropped the whole of it onto the floor. He swore viciously and struggled to put it back before doing more damage.

"Christ. What the hell is wrong with me?"

He let out a breath of frustration before pouring himself a proper mugful. The hot drink seemed to clear the fog from his brain and set him right. He finished the whole of it and poured a second before deciding to look for Mary.

"Mary?" He called.   
There was no answer. 

"Mary? Are you in?" He tried again, leaving the kitchen in search of his pregnant wife.   
He heard a whimper coming from their bedroom. Guilt swept over him. Was she crying?  
John picked up his pace and hurried up the stairs. "Mary?"  
  
     John came through the door of the bedroom to find Mary curled into a ball on the bed. He walked over and sat beside her. "Mary? Are you alright?"  
She turned her head toward him and he saw the pain that contorted her features. 

"Oh god. Oh god, Mary. Are you? Is it time?" He asked, setting his coffee on the night table and rubbing his hand over her back. She looked up at him and forced a grim line of a smile and feral fear behind her eyes.

"I think...I need..."

"What do you need? What is it?" He asked, panic setting in. It was too soon. Too soon.

"GOD, John!" she shouted, followed by a moan of a tremendous discomfort.   
John was silent and waited for her to collect herself again. He touched her cheeks and forehead. She was sweating heavily. Her skin felt warmer than it should have been. Then he checked for signs of bleeding through the sheets she was wrapped in. There was none, but Mary did not look like a woman who was well.   
"Hospital, John. I need to go to the hospital. Now!"

He leaped from her side and raced downstairs for his mobile. Dialing 999, he summoned an ambulance he felt quite sure was necessary. Mary was in labor, and judging by her suffering, it was farther along than he would like it to be.   
A cry from upstairs had him racing back up. "I'm coming, Mary! The ambulance is on it's way!"

By the end of the day, he would be a father. 

 

 


	3. Loyalties

     

          The grey afternoon was an unwelcome sight to one aching Sherlock Holmes. The bottle he had suckled to sleep the night nefore lay before him, half empty and untroubled. His eyes burned in the beam of light that cast through the window, dry and blurred. Throbbing pain rattled his brain, and he closed eyes tight against it. Slowly lifting himself off the floorboards his joints groaned at each effort of movement.

He looked around the flat. A teapot sat waiting on his chairside table. He rubbed his hands over his face. He was still dressed in yesterdays clothes. They felt disgusting against his skin. He'd spilled scotch down the front of his shirt and there were ash smudges on his jacket and pants. His lips twisted downward, hating himself even more now than he had the night before. He crawled across the floor and sat heavily beside the fat teapot Mrs. Hudson had obviously brought for him, and poured himself a cup. 

It was cold. 

      Sherlock grimaced as his only chance of pleasure in that moment was stolen away. How long ago had this been left here? How long had he been asleep (passed out)? He gulped down the cold tea and looked around for his mobile. It wasn't in his pocket. It wasn't on the floor where he had woken.  
He forced himself to stand and pulled off his dirty suit jacket, casting it over Johns chair. And there was his mobile. Sitting on Johns chair.   
Snatching it up, he discovered he had missed several calls. More than usual. And there were texts. Many. Lestrade alone had sent 7. He opened the messages and quickly read that Mary had gone into labor. She and John were at St. Bart's. And everyone was asking where the hell he was.

He furrowed his brow. Even with his fogged brain he knew that Mary was more than five weeks away from her due date. And many first-born children are late, not early. Mary was a touch older for a first time mother...the likelyhood of a premature birth was higher in those cases. He had seen her, of course, only a few weeks ago. She still seemed rather small. Something seemed wrong about it.    
His mind became a whirlwind of questions.

Then a storm of misery swept over him.   
She was having their baby. Johns baby. Right at this moment. This was it. 

He sat down slowly, torn between the feelings that had intruded and the question which was presented. Looking back to his phone, he swept through the missed calls.   
Mycroft  
Mrs. Hudson  
Molly  
Mycroft  
Lestrade  
Molly  
Lestrade  
Lestrade  
Lestrade  
Mrs. Hudson  
Mycroft

Not a single call from John. He put down the phone. He wasn't wanted. Not there.

He couldn't go.

Shouldn't. John didn't want him there. Won't go.

Can't. 

       Sherlock reached across the empty space between the two chairs and grabbed the jacket. He dug through his pockets for whatever remained of his cigarettes. There were three left. That was all. He was almost out, and that meant he would have to leave the flat. Sighing, he placed one between his lips and lit up. The first drag was always the best, that first rush of the day, filling his lungs so beautifully. The smoke drifted from his mouth, and he exhaled. Then coughed. Then coughed harder, doubling over in his chair. There was a full, tight feeling in his chest as he hacked helplessly.   
"Breathe, idiot!" His mind shouted.

Gasping efforts to calm himself finally worked, and he managed to sit upright and catch his breath. Something tacky and disgusting had landed in his palm during the fit, and he wiped it on his pants with a grimace. Perhaps it was time to admit that Mrs. Hudson might be right. He would kill himself with these things. He looked at the cigarette in his hand. Not the most fitting way to go, he supposed. He dropped in into the teapot and savored the hiss of it being extinguished.   
His mobile rang.

        "What is it?" He said, blandly.  
"Where on earth have you been!" cried Molly.  
His head ached at the sound.  
"Don't waste your time."  
Another voice sounded in the background. "Tell him to get down here, Molly."  
"Is that Lestrade?"  
"Mary s having the baby, Sherlock." Molly's voice told him. "She's having the baby. But it doesn't look well. You should be here."  
"John doesn't want me there. I am not coming."

There was the sound of movement, followed by the loud voice of Lestrade shouting at him. "Listen, you stubborn arse! Your best friends having a baby, and you better get yourself down here, or else."  
"Ah, Gareth. Very persuasive. No wonder you are the head of idiots down at Scotland Yard."  
"You..." The sound of movement again and a distant shout of "It's GREG."

"Sherlock?" Molly again.  
"You are wasting your time. I told you not to. Leave me alone, Molly."  
"No. Don't be stupid."  
"Sorry? What was that?"  
"I said, don't be stupid. John needs you."  
"John does not need me. He has made that very clear."  
"You know him. He doesn't know how to ask."  
"...I can't."  
There was a pause on the line. Then the gentle voice of Molly spoke once more.  
"Sherlock, you have to be here."   
The line went out.

        Sherlock was silent. His mobile rang again. Mycroft. He tossed it onto Johns chair and put his throbbing head into his hands. The ringing stopped. Then started again. Sherlock stood and walked away from it, suddenly desperate for a glass of water to soothe his parched mouth. A couple of paracetamol might do the trick as well.  
Throwing back the pills and downing the water in a few greedy gulps, he slammed down the glass and sighed heavily. His shoulders slumped forward and his head hung.

He felt ashamed. But how could he be expected to go searching out John, when John had not come searching for him. Not once. After everything he had done, Sherlock had been abandoned. The loneliness swelled in his chest. The silence of the flat was broken by the ringing of another call. Self-pity was starting to feel pathetic. Sherlock squared his shoulders, lifted his chin and walked into the bathroom, unbuttoning his stained shirt as he went. The sound of running water soon overwhelmed the sound of ringing.   
On the screen of his phone, Johns number flashed, then went dark.   


The steaming water poured over Sherlocks frame, washing away the stink of stale smoke and several weeks of bad hygiene. The hot water made him sigh, his mind running over the facts before him. He knew what he should do. What he was expected to do. But he could not bring himself to commit to it. He reached for his shampoo and scrubbed his messy hair. Soaping up forced him to look at his own body.

He was rather surprised at how poor he looked. His lean figure had been further reduced by his recent neglect, and he could clearly see his ribs. He ran his fingers over them. A few weeks had eaten up his muscles, and any good fat he had built up over the past year was gone. His hipbones jutted out too far. His legs looks scrawny, but that was how he had always imagined them to be. He looked sickly. Paired with the array of scars that tattooed his flesh, he was an awful sight to himself. And most of it was to do with the one part of him he thought he had perfect control of. Yet there it was; evidence of the power that emotions still had over his mind clearly displayed by his body.

He washed quickly and turned off the water.   
Stepping on the mat, he toweled himself off and looked into the mirror. He looked older than he liked. Damp curls dripped over his eyes, and he frowned. He needed to shave. And get a haircut. The ladder could wait, but the former he could do now. 

     By the time evening rolled around, Sherlock had finished dressing himself. He emerged from his bedroom looking much more like himself than he had for some time. He smoothed his hair and adjusted his jacket, reluctant to look at his mobile again. He was hungry. Starving, really. But there was nothing to eat in his kitchen. He took his belstaff of its hook and pulled it over his shoulders, then went to retrieve his phone. He flicked on the screen and looked at the missed calls.   
John.   
JOHN.   
His heart skipped when he saw the number. There was no message. But he had called. John had called. John needed him.   
In an instant, he was out the door. 


	4. Declined Treatment

 

      Mary had gone into a sudden and rapid labor. The ambulance ride to St. Bartholomew's was the longest journey of John's life. Mary was in agony, and he was terrified.  
All his years as a doctor, he had never frozen before. Not even on the battlefield. But here, watching her being carried to hospital, he was struck with a helplessness that he was not used to feeling. All he could think of was the baby. Was it too early? What if it didn't survive? What would be left for him then?

The paramedics burst out the doors of the ambulance, and John hurried alongside, clutching the rail of Mary's gurney as they made their way into the white-washed environment of the hospital. A young doctor approached them, carrying a chart under her arm. One of the paramedics blurt out information at her and she nodded.

Mary's waters had burst on the ride over. There was a good deal of blood present. Her uterus was contracting, but her cervix was not dilated far enough. They would have to do a cesarean.   
Mary, though nearly delirious with pain, grabbed John's arm.    
"No! No, no, no!"

John looked down at her, stunned at her opposition. She was terribly pale; sweat beading along her forehead and beneath her eyes.   
"Mary, you are in a dangerous situation now." John said. "The doctor is right to make the call."   
"NO!" She cried with ferocity. She looked nearly wild. John leaned away from her, surprised and confused.   
"It HAS to be NATURAL. It HAS TO!" 

John looked at the doctor. She came to Mary's side and tried to reason with her.   
"Mrs. Watson,"  
John grimaced to hear her called that. It was like being stuck with a pin.  
"Mrs. Watson, we have to perform a cesarean section in order to deliver your baby safely."  
"No." She said "No. We will wait. We can wait."  
The doctor looked at John apologetically. They were walking toward the maternity ward.   
"Mrs. Watson, your waters have burst. The contractions are too close together. If we wait, it will be dangerous for both you and the baby." 

Mary looked at John. There was a clear sadness in her eyes. He reached out and held her hand, nodding in agreement with the doctors statement. She turned her gaze back to the assuring face of the doctor.   
"No."   
The doctor lowered her head. John loosened his grip on Mary's hand, shocked by her resistance.   
"Mary, Why? If you choose to wait, we could lose the baby. This is an emergency."  
Mary looked at him, then past him as a crippling wave of pain washed over her. John waited for her to ride it out, feeling frustration and sympathy in one emotion. Once the contraction settled, she voiced her opinion through desperate breaths.   
"I will have this baby in the manner that I choose. I do not consent to a cesarean section."   
The doctor nodded. "Alright, Mrs. Watson. We will do our best to help you."   
John felt sick. 

        The delivery room was small, but private. The doctor took charge immediately, shouting orders to the nursing staff as the paramedics left, their part now finished. John stood back and watched while Mary was hooked up to monitors. An ultrasound machine was brought in. The nurses helped Mary out of her clothing and into a gown.

John could see the veins under her skin and the movement of the muscles in her swollen belly. It looked so painful. But there was nothing he could do. He felt so lost. She would not listen to him. She would not listen to the doctor. There had to be a way to get done what needed doing. But for now, all he could do was watch and hope. 

The doctor lay Mary down and spread the ultrasound jelly along her abdomen. The sound of a rapid, distorted heartbeat filled the room. She looked intently at the screen. So did John. The baby was not moving, her heart was beating fast. She was in distress. Time to check dilation again. John went to Mary's side. He was angry and sick and scared, and all he could think to do was hold her hand. So that is what he did.   
        A nurse brought in an IV of fluid for Mary. She looked worse than she had when they arrived. The doctor looked at John. 6 cm. Not nearly enough. And there was more blood. John looked at Mary and implored her to take the doctor's advice. She growled and moaned, but shook her head.   
This was how the day passed away. 

       John had not imagined that the birth of his daughter would be under the storm of an argument. Every contraction was misery, but she held as much in as possible. John paced the floor and rubbed her shoulder and tried over and over to convince her. They attempted to give her something to help her along, but she refused. "Time," she would say, "just a little more time."  
"Mary, if you must try to do this, at least let them administer the drugs." John pleaded. "They will help move this along. Please."   
"No, John. No."   
"Mary, enough! You have to choose something, now!"  
She looked into his eyes, cold and determined. "We wait until there is no other choice."  
"There IS no other choice!" John said, his voice rising with his blood pressure. "Mary! This could kill her!"  
Mary let go of his hand and looked away.  
One of the nurses urged him to go and get himself a drink of water and go for a walk. He let the man lead him out of the door, but he didn't leave. He just stood, watching through the little window as his wife lived out the choice he could not understand. 

        John sat in a chair outside the delivery room. Someone had given him a plastic cup filled with water, and he had been holding it for nearly half an hour. The door to the room opened, and the doctor came out. "Doctor Watson," she asked. John looked up.   
"I am sorry for shouting." He said. "I just...I don't understand why she is risking..." He trailed off into silence.   
"I understand your concern. Knowing all you do as a doctor always makes it worse." She said, her tone assuring and calm.   
John sighed and sat up, looking the doctor in the eye. "Are they in serious danger?"

Her mouth set grimly. "The baby is becoming more and more stressed. The heart rate has been dropping. It is still within safe range at this point, but only by a slim margin. Also, based on the severity and frequency of her contractions, I am growing concerned about a rupture in her uterus. Its rare in women who have not had a cesarean in the past, but it is possible in such extreme circumstances. Unfortunately, until one of these things take place, she still has the right to refuse treatment."  
"If she is refusing treatment that is medically necessary, we can intervene."  
"When the time comes, we will make that call."   
John nodded his head.   
"We are trying to slow her contractions. I think it would be best if you stayed out here for a while longer."  
He understood. He was not ready to go back into the room yet, anyhow.  
She passed back through the silently closing door and out of sight.

John looked at the floor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. He scrolled through his contacts. Pathetically short list. Stopping, he stared at the number he was inches from pressing. Sherlock Holmes. Would he answer? Would he want to?  
A pair of brown shoes stopped in front of him. He looked up into the warm, worried face of Molly Hooper.   
He put away his phone .

  
"John! Are you...is Mary okay? I heard you two were in, but I know its early yet. Is the baby okay?"  
John smiled bravely at her and stood. "Thank you for coming up, Molly. Mary has gone into early labour, but she...she..."  
Molly put her hand on his shoulder. 

John sighed and hugged her tightly. A steaming cup of coffee materialized before him, held out by the steady hand of Greg Lestrade. He released Molly and took it gratefully, hardly noticing the look that passed between the other two. They sat together, asking questions and listening to John's controlled answers. It was clear he was upset. He just wasn't about to share it. They stayed with him for less than half an hour before Molly apologized for needing to go back to work. Greg frowned and concurred. John nodded thanking them for coming.   
"I will be back up later." Said Molly  
"Yeah, I'll stop by this evening. Gimme a call if anything happens, or if you need anything. Anything at all." Said Greg, his features open and concerned. John nodded again. That seemed like all he could respond with. Then they were gone, walking down the hall together. His mobile rang. John's heart started beating hopefully. He looked at the screen.

It was Mrs. Hudson. 

  
"Hi Mrs. Hudson."  
"Ohhhh, John! I got a call from Molly a while ago. I wasn't sure if I should call, but I am so worried! Tell me, is she doing alright?"  
John wasn't sure if Mrs. Hudson meant Mary or the baby. "They are okay at the moment, Mrs. H."   
"Thank heaven! I have been out all morning wondering and worrying. I ran into Mrs. Turner and told her all about it. She was very concerned for you both. Oh, I stopped in at a baby boutique near the park, dear. I have a few things for the little one. But I shouldn't get to far ahead. Has Sherlock come by yet?"  
John furrowed his brow. "No. No, I haven't heard from him in weeks."   
"Ah, well, don't you worry, love. I am sure he will get there. He didn't look like he would be moving anywhere quickly this morning when I stopped in, but you know how he is when things are going badly."   
"What do you mean?" He asked, suddenly feeling guilt wretch in his guts  
"Oh, nothing dear. Never mind that. You get back to that wife of yours and make sure everything is alright. Alright Ta, John."  
And she was gone.

        John sat stupefied in his chair. What did she mean? Was Sherlock using again? Mycroft said he would take care of him...but it didn't sound like that was the case. He should have checked in sooner. What a time to bring it up. Now he had this guilt pushed right into his face at the worst possible moment. John was so full of fear and anxiety already, he wasn't sure he could handle anything else. His eyes were blurring. Tears? He needed some control. He needed some help. He needed his friend.  
He opened the contact screen again and pressed down.   
The ringer sounded. And again. And again. Voicemail.   
John ended the call, put his head into his hands, and waited.  
  
          


	5. Society dictates

 

         Sherlock was standing outside the doors to the hospital. The evening light was still strong, but low, casting an odd light on the great, grey box of human affliction.   
He had hesitated just a few metres from the front door, near the segregated crowds of smoking doctors and patients. It was like hitting a wall. Going in meant facing John: what once was and what is now and what will be forever more. It seemed stupid, since he knew that thinking of a human life in terms of forever was ludicrous. But that was how it felt.

He shrunk back, considering leaving England altogether. It would be easy. He had done it before. Just this time, there would be no need to come back.   
Except John had called him. He had picked up his mobile and dialed Sherlock while standing somewhere in this building. And while it was tempting to run, Sherlock knew he never could.   
 So instead of leaving, he decided to bum a cigarette off a young doctor who was leaning on the hospital walls, engrossed in his phone. And he smoked it to the filter.

 

      John heard the screams. He heard the guttural cry of a woman giving birth even as the door slid open and the doctor called  him back into the room. He went in, hurrying to Mary's side, his indignation for the moment swept aside. t happened faster than he expected, once Mary began to bear down.

And then she was there, his daughter was born and real and in the room with them. His eyes welled with tears. But after a moment, his heart began to thunder. She wasn't making any sounds. She wasn't moving. His stomach lurched. The doctor was in action, but John couldn't focus on what she was doing. He was panicking.   
Mary lay in agony beside him, her contractions carrying on past the birth with continued strength. She moaned in misery while the nurses scurried about, helping her. John couldn't see what any of them were doing. He couldn't feel anything. He just stared as so many hands came in to help the tiny little human child try to breathe for the first time. 

He was shaking. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion. He looked at the monitors attached to Mary. They were showing a drop in blood pressure. He was gently pushed out of the way as everyone leapt into action, except him. His hand hurt. Why? He looked down stupidly and remembered the bandage job he had done last night. But there was not any real thought about it. No thought about anything. He was blank. 

And then suddenly, he heard it. The high, desperate first cry from his daughter's throat. She was breathing!   
He broke into unabashed tears.  
She was alive.

 

Sherlock breezed through the doors of the hospital and down the smooth, cold halls.  
It smelled the same as it always did; antiseptic wash and hand sanitizer and recycled air. He was walking briskly through the lingering groups huddled here and there, talking amongst themselves. A few turned and watched him pass, the tall, black-clad man who they recognized from the television and newspaper he was on not all that long ago.

He ignored them all, loathing them for their interest in him because of television scandals. On his way to the lifts, he slowed. He was passing the gift shop. He recalled something important.

Mrs. Hudson.

She was explaining something to him. He scrunched up his nose as it came back to him. She had been telling him about how she was going to buy John's baby some little thing or another.

'That's right,' he thought. 'Society dictates that when one visits a baby, they must present it with a gift.'

He looked through the glass walls of the gift shop, noticing the floral this and that, and the hideous arrangements of flowers and balloons. Then he saw something that caught his eye. He entered the shop.

 Upstairs, the delivery room had finally begun to settle down.  
The doctor had got Mary's blood pressure stable and everything was beginning to go smoothly. John listened to her explain to Mary that she was being observed for postpartum hemorrhage, and she and the baby would remain in the care of the hospital until the doctor felt they were in more stable condition.

Mary was too exhausted to respond. She claimed to be too weary to hold her brand new daughter, in too much pain to nurse her. The doctor had given up trying to convince her that it would be best for both of them after Mary demonstrated with tense words her knowledge of what she should do, and explained what she felt capable of.  
Once again, John could not understand her. He didn't stand beside her. He could hardly look at her while she spoke. But though he felt his anger rise at first, he actually pitied her. She looked wretched. There was no glow of a new mother. There was only sallow skin and tired eyes and a look of resigned weariness. So John took the child into his own arms.

His feelings of animosity were quickly forgotten.  
He was captivated as he gazed into the face of his own child for the very first time. Her tiny hands reached out at the empty air, and she opened her eyes up at her father. He knew that her vision would be blurry, but he savored the moment she looked at him-staring up with the darkest blue eyes he had ever seen. He knew in an instant that he loved her wholly, even as she began to cry again.

One of the nurses approached them. "We will have to put your daughter into an incubator overnight. She will be attached-"

"Yes, I know." He said, his eyes never leaving her face. "I.V."

The nurse smiled sympathetically. "She is doing remarkably well. I have little doubt that she will be able to nurse on her own very soon. But for now, we need to keep an eye on her vitals, especially her breathing. But, as you know, Doctor Watson, we have high hopes for this little one."

John smiled. He smiled even as tears hung in his eyes. He smiled as he handed his little child off to the arms of another human.  
And then his arms felt empty, and his hand throbbed, and he remembered that he had called Sherlock, and he wished that he were there with him. All these thoughts tumbled out, one after another. He was watching the nurse who would put his daughter into a neonatal care unit when someone asked him if he was alright. He blinked, and noticed it was the same nurse who had asked him to leave the room earlier.

"I'm just a bit...overwhelmed, I suppose. " he answered.

The nurse nodded. "I believe you must be. But your hand. It looks like you may need a new bandage." he said.  
John looked down at his upturned palms. There was some red leaking through his white cotton wrapping.  
"Why don't you let me have a look?" The nurse offered. John accepted, and took a seat.  
The old bandage was removed, with some difficulty, and his tipsy-looking stitches were examined. It wasn't the worst, but he would end up with a scar. No matter. A little ointment was applied and a new bandage put on. It was a much nicer job than he had done on himself. And while it was done, he watched his wife, slowly becoming aware of all the concern he felt.  
She had wanted the baby, hadn't she? Why didn't she want her now? How could it be that she refused to hold her?  
As the gauze was secured, the door to the room swung open. An attendant called to John.  
"There is someone here to see you, Doctor Watson."  
John felt his chest ache. He stood, thanking the nurse for his help, and passed through the open door.

 

It was the same man he always knew, but somehow altered.

Sherlock watched John pass into the hallway, watched his eyes widen when they fell on him, watched the colour rise in his cheeks. Embarrassment? Estrangement? John had stopped a good distance away from him.  
His eyes were red-rimmed and dark; he hasn't been sleeping well. His forehead carried to lines of worry and wear. His hair was messy and askew. His lips were dry, mild dehydration. His shoulders were tense from hours of worry and stress...why was his hand bandaged?  
Sherlock took in every piece of information available to him in that first instant.  
But then John's face changed. A smile was creeping over his features. Something was funny. What was funny? Sherlocks mind had started to struggle with a lack of understanding. Then it dawned on him. The gift.

He held out for John a soft white rabbit plush.

"I brought this. You know. For your baby."  
John let the smile overtake his features, and stepped forward to take the stuffed bunny out of Sherlocks hand. He looked downright ridiculous holding the thing. It was rather nice, though. High quality.

"Thanks." He said, looking at the collar around it's neck.  
The name on it read 'Bluebell'.

A sudden burst of laughter exploded from John's mouth, and the tension was cut between them. Sherlock felt a grin creep across his lips. He had done something right. He had made John laugh, and nothing had yet diminished that pleasure.  
John held the plush toy, thinking over the surprise. Sherlock had brought a gift. An actual, proper, appropriate gift for his baby. A thoughtful one, too. One that connected them all together. Without a second thought, he stepped forward and hugged Sherlock. And Sherlock, though a little surprised himself, only took a second to react by wrapping his arms around the clearly-exhausted frame of his friend.


	6. Unity

 

 Hospital staff and visitors walked passed them with a quick glance, at most. Everyone had somewhere important to be, and an embrace was an embrace. Certainly nothing strange around these corridors.

Sherlock rested his cheek on the top of John's head, his hands holding John firmly in place against his chest. He wondered, for a second, if John would notice his quick heartbeat, but the thought dissipated as quickly as it formed. Because John had wanted him here, that was clear. And now it had been several moments. He hadn't let go.  
He could feel John's breath through his shirt; his face pressed against his shoulder, arms holding tightly around his waist, fists clutching the fabric of his coat. He wanted to say something. He couldn't think of what it was. 

 John held Sherlock Holmes like he was the only thing in the world who could hold him upright. And in many ways, that was the truth. He was completely overwhelmed. He didn't know what he was feeling anymore about anything in his life. But at that moment a warmth and happiness bubbled up from a place inside him that had been cold for months now. For the first time in long years, he felt like he was standing firmly on the ground. He pressed his face against Sherlocks collar.

"You came." He whispered.  
Sherlock lifted his head, his hands loosening.

"You called." He said.

John sniffed, released him from his grasp, and stepped back. He met Sherlocks eyes with intention.  
"Thank you."

Sherlock shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. All those weeks thinking of what he would say to John, just to see him again and say nothing at all. How stupid of him.   
John frowned. "You look thin." he said. 

"Jealous?" Sherlock smirked. 

John suppressed a giggle. He held the bunny in front of him, suddenly remembering why he was there. 

"Would you like to see her?" He asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

"She's down in the NICU. The nurse just took her. It's this way." He said. Sherlock let John lead him down the hallways toward the room where his baby was being monitored. He was anxious to get to her. He could see it in his eager stride: short, quick steps with closed fists. He followed close behind.

They were ushered in by the attending nurse, who asked Sherlock to remove his coat. It still smelled like cigarette smoke. He threw his coat over a waiting chair outside the door and went in. John was already standing beside her, gazing in at her sleeping form. He looked up at Sherlock and beckoned him over to look. Sherlock saw the teary shine in John's eyes, the glow of pride on his features. He wondered what that must feel like. He wondered at that expression. He had never seen it before. There was something soft about the doctor, a protectiveness and a vulnerability all displayed simultaneously. Sherlock stood beside John and looked down at the infant displayed before them.

Protected by the warmth of the incubator, hooked up by monitors and cords, she appeared incredibly small. Unbelievably fragile-looking.

Sherlock meditated. 'John's child.'

He had never known himself to be particularly interested in children of any age, but she looked so helpless. It made him feel strange. Watchful. There was a lump in his throat that hadn't been there before. He swallowed and focused on the details.  
He looked for signs of John's features on her tiny face. It was hard to tell. Clearly, the labour had been difficult. She had bruising all over her head. He realized John was speaking.

"...may have to stay here for a day or so. But she's already doing so well. She doesn't need help breathing, which eliminates the bulk of the problems." He looked at Sherlock. "What do you think of her?"

Sherlock looked at John. He saw the hope in his eyes. The fatherly love he already had for this child. So he smiled.

"She's perfect, John."  
John's whole face lit up, and he looked back down at his daughter. They stood there together for a while, watching her sleep in her warm little pod.

"How's Mary?"

The moment was broken. Sherlock could feel John's change. The baby stirred, then settled again and they decided to go back to the hallway to talk. Sherlock collected his belfast and followed John's footsteps, leading in the direction of the delivery room. He stopped and turned around. The lines on forehead alone spoke of a troubled mind within. Sherlock's brain switched on, collecting data to solve the question he had asked himself hours ago. His eyes narrowed, and John could see he was making deductions already. "Stop."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Stop what?"

John sighed. "Stop deducing me. Just stop. I"ll tell you, you don't have to solve me."

Sherlock's eyes darted away. "I'm not solving _you._ "  
John cocked his head to the side. Sherlock could practically hear the cheeky words forming in John's mind. His lips turned downward. "Alright." 

"Right. Well, it's just...Mary hasn't been acting the way I expected she would."

Sherlock made a face. "What kind of expectations did you have for a woman in labor?"

He felt John's tension level rise, and made a mental note to shut up. "Sorry. Go on."

John sighed. "Maybe you just need to come see her. I should probably go check in, myself." Sherlock agreed to his request, and began walking along behind John toward Mary's room.   
  
        John poked his head into the doorway. Mary was lying on her bed, quietly looking at her hands. She looked better than she had. There was colour in her face again. Her expression was bland, though. As though deep in thought and far away, but without the dreaminess that is often associated with that state of mind. She looked up at John, very slowly, as he entered the room.   
"Mary? There is someone here to say hello. Are you feeling alright?"  
Mary remained distantly thoughtful as she answered. "It's Sherlock, isn't it?"  
John nodded.   
She nodded in return. And Sherlock was admitted to Mary's room. He walked toward her with trepidation, taking in the empty expression of her eyes. He felt his blood go cold. The look was not unlike the look she gave him when he found her in Magnussen's office. The hollow face she wore when she pulled the trigger. Even the thought of it made his bullet-wound burn; memories of an old pain re-lit by the mind. He stopped halfway between the door and the bed, and put on his game-face. 

"Hello, Mary."  
Her expression slowly changed. A rise of uneven warmth where there had been only ice before. "Hello, Sherlock. I am glad you've come."  
John watched in confusion. Sherlock took a step toward her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, laying his hand on her beside.

She smoothed the blanket over her waist and offered a thin-lipped smile. "Exhausted. I think I need to sleep a while."

"Of course." He said. "I've just been to see your daughter."

Mary's warmth cooled again. She looked at him, her eyes controlled. "Good." she said. "That's good. Thank you for coming."

Sherlock watched her face. "She is beautiful. Did you see her before she was taken away? Perhaps you would like to hear about her?"

Mary turned back to her first expression. There was emptiness again in her eyes. Sherlock did not waver, watching her change in countenance with suspicion.   
"I need to rest now. Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Yes, of course you do." He said, touching her arm carefully in the manner of a friend. She shrunk away from his touch. He looked for changes in her expression, but there were none to be read. She was closed and locked. Sherlock stepped away, his mind working over her odd reaction to him. She had been pretending to care about him for months since the shooting. Why change the game now?  
"Take care, Mary." He said evenly. 

"Yes." She said, her voice flat. " You, too."

He turned and left the room, his skin prickling from the sensation her voice left on him. John followed him out and the door closed soundlessly behind him.   
"I see what you mean." Sherlock said.   
"Something is not right." He said.  
Sherlock looked at him. "Obviously."   
John half-rolled his eyes. It would have been funny, were he not so troubled. He sat down once again in the chairs outside the door. Sherlock sat next to him, looking off down the hall. Then he turned to John. "You should tell me what happened."

John's shoulders slumped. He told Sherlock everything from that morning on. Sleeping on the couch, waking up to find her not about in the house. The unexpectedness of the labour. The swift violence of it. The way she behaved, the things she said. How she rejected holding her newborn daughter.   
Sherlock could see the pain it caused him. The rejection in particular seemed to hurt him. She was certainly up to something. The question was, what?

He needed more information. Before something else hurt John. He stood up and made to leave, but John looked at him with a need like he hadn't seen in a long time and he hesitated.  
"Would you like me to stay?"  
John looked away. "No, it's alright. If you need to go. I understand."

Sherlock knew the lie. He was very tempted to take advantage of it, and use his time to break into John and Mary's townhome. But he knew he couldn't. Not when John wanted him here. So he lied as well. "I just thought perhaps you could use a coffee."  
John relief was evident. "Thank you." he said. Then, looking over Sherlocks slight body, added "Maybe get me a sandwich? I am famished."  
Sherlock gave half-smile. "Sure, John. I'll be right back."


	7. Billy

 

          The cafeteria was still bustling with people while Sherlock wandered through, looking to fill his order for John. He kept his head down and made up two coffees, one for himself. Then he grabbed a couple of half-decent looking sandwiches to bring up. He would eat something tonight, if only to keep himself thinking. While waiting to pay, he pulled out his mobile and flicked on the screen, quickly looking through his contacts. If he couldn't break into John's house himself, he needed someone to. Hopefully, before anything had been moved or tampered with. There was only one person, aside from John, who he could depend on to do the job. 

"Hey, Shezza. Yu know I can't be seen 'round your place. Have'ta find your little fix elsewhere, mate. You're big brother will have me hung."

"Hanged."

"Wut?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nevermind. I am not looking for-" He stopped speaking, realizing where he was. "Listen, I need you to run a little errand for me."

"Ahhh, alright. You need ol' Billy to do a little detective work? No worries. Wut do yah need?"  
He gave Billy the address.

"Just a little digging. Let me know anything you find."

"You got it."

Sherlock ended the call and slipped his phone into his pocket. He paid for the food and started his way back to the ward where John was waiting. Passing near the entrance again, he heard a familiar voice. 

"I can't believe it. You actually left your place."

 Sherlock turned to see Lestrade walking into the lobby.

 "I am glad to see you. I was getting worried." he said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "That says a great deal. Having trouble chasing down vandals and shoplifters without my help?"

Greg smiled ruefully. "You know why." 

Sherlock looked down at his coffees. "I do."

He looked back up. "But I am fine."

Greg looked him over. "When's the last time you ate anything? You look like hell."  
Sherlock balanced one coffee cup on top of the other and pulled a sandwich out of his coat pocket.

 "No need to worry, detective inspector." he winked, "I've got it under control."

"You going up to see John? Did she, uh..."

"Yes, the baby is fine. Just a little bruised."

Greg looked relieved. "Good. I'll be up it a bit, I just got to go get Molly."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "Get Molly? Since when does she need you to go get her?"

Greg grinned. "She doesn't. She just likes it when I do." He winked back at Sherlock, who didn't understand until Greg was already on his way. Then he turned back to go to John. 

         John was talking to the doctor again when Sherlock arrived. She had reached out and touched his shoulder. It was a gesture of empathy and kindness, but Sherlock still wanted to chase her away. He knew it was ridiculous to feel that way, but it was a reaction that took place in him as naturally as he would blink or breathe. He forced it away as he approached. The doctor looked at him with surprise when he stopped beside John, handing him one of the cups he carried.   
"Mr. Holmes!" she said, holding out her hand.  
Sherlock furrowed his brow and shook her hand.

"I'm sorry, have we met?"

She shook her head. "No. Sorry. I just recognize you from your picture in the papers. And the telly."   
Sherlock saw a hint of blush appear on her cheeks. He smiled at her, all charm and ease. 'Ah,' he thought. 'Simple.'

"I see. And you are?"

"Doctor Younge. Cathy. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"And you." He said, the richness of his voice implying more than he felt.   
John was very near glaring at Sherlock, the colour on his face changing just slightly.   
Sherlock finally released the hand of Doctor Younge, and she looked back to John.

"I will be by again shortly to check in." She glanced at Sherlock and smiled, then she walked off toward her next patient.   
John tried not to let his tone betray him.

 "So," he said, "What the hell was that?"

Sherlock sipped his coffee and sat down. "Just laying the groundwork."

John's cheeks flushed. "For WHAT, exactly?"  
Sherlock couldn't contain the flutter of pleasure that crossed his features. John was upset. Upset because he had flirted with his Doctor. He loved it when John got protective of him. It was reassuring to know he wasn't the only one who got jealous. 

"Information, John. She wants to keep you calm, but me," he sipped his coffee, looking satisfied with himself. "I may have the privilege of knowing more. By pulling the right strings, of course." He teased.

John sat down beside him, shaking his head. "You are...so..."

"Eat." He said, handing him a sandwich.

John looked at Sherlock. "Where's yours?" 

Sherlock pulled the other one out and opened it up. "Hospital food. How delightful."

John smiled, in spite of himself. "Yeah, It's not exactly Angelo's."

Sherlock hesitated. Why had John mentioned Angelo's, of all places? He took a bite and grimaced.   
"I don't care if you don't like it, you'll eat it all." John said.   
Sherlocks lips turned up into a smile again. Despite everything going on around them, everything that had taken place; the loneliness, the resentment, the anger, the fear...they could still sit together amidst all the madness and make each other happy. So that is what they did. Sat together, eating their bland sandwiches and drinking their coffees in the hallway, and enjoyed every moment of it.   
       

         Greg and Molly turned up once the wrappers had been tossed away and the coffee cups were empty. They were walking very close together, Sherlock noticed. Obviously, there had been some changes since he was last around. John didn't seem to notice a thing. He stood to greet them, while Sherlock hung back.   
Molly hugged John, tears hanging in the corners of her eyes.

"Oh, John! Congratulations!" 

Greg extended his hand, and John shook it warmly. Then Molly turned his attention on Sherlock.   
"Sherlock! My god."   
He stood and Molly hugged him as well. There was none of her former intimidation of him. None of her misguided affection. Just relief, and friendship, and he was glad. He planted a kiss on her cheek and she blushed a little, glancing at Greg who narrowed his eyes without malice.   
"I can't believe you're here. I really didn't think you'd come. You sounded so..." She trailed off

John furrowed his brow. "You called him?"

Molly shrugged. "Of course. It didn't seem like you were going to. Everyone called him."  
John looked at Sherlock, who didn't look at him.

Greg changed the subject. "So, papa John, can we see the little one, or what?"

John tore himself out of his own thoughts and obliged them. "She's down this way. Follow me."   
Sherlock hung back, his phone buzzing.

"I'll meet you in a moment."   
John looked at him questioningly.   
"I just want to get a bit of air."  
John's curious expression stayed on his face even as he turned and led the other two away. 

Once out of sight, Sherlock pulled out his phone and checked his messages. Billy. Outside.   
That was faster than he had expected. Sherlock was glad he was still on the payroll.

      The dark had well settled over the city, and Sherlock blended into the night with little effort. He found Billy hanging around far from the entrance. He approached and pulled a plastic baggie out from his pocket.

"I think yu might find wut your lookin' for inn'ere."

Sherlock took the bag and went to slip it into his innermost pocket. Billy grabbed his hand.

"Careful, now! Yu don't wanna get stuck." He released his hand and Sherlock opened the bag to look inside.  
Syringes.  
Empty pill bottle.  
Empty vial.  
Prostaglandin.  
Oxytocin.

"Where did you find this?" He asked, darkly.

"Neighbors bins, 'course. She wouldn't wanna be keepin' those around. But she wouldn'a been goin' too far after usin' all that. She would hav'tu get rid of 'em quick. Easy. Garbage pickup set for the mornin'. Nasty lot, innit?"

Sherlock carefully wrapped the bag around the evidence, and put it in his pocket.  
"Thank you, Billy." He said, placing a small stack of notes in his hand. "Well done."  
Billy gave him a nod and disappeared into the London night.

Sherlock, at first satisfied by discovering his instinct correct, was quickly halted in his tracks by a realization.  
Telling John would hurt him. Not telling him would also hurt him, if Mary was about to do what he thought she might.Now he felt himself at an impasse.

What was the right thing to do?  
Which motive was the best one to follow?  
Which outcome would be the least painful to John?  
Was there any outcome more desirable than any other?

The idea that what he would say to John might push him away, that John would reject the information and turn on himself instead, was very real. John was usually an emotionally-charged man. Under these circumstances, he was volatile.

It would be best to wait, he decided. Ay least for tonight. Wait, and try to get out of Mary why she had taken such a risk onto her self and her baby.

On the way back inside, he swindled another smoke off a woman taking her break. He sat on one of the benches and let the smoke drift and curl around his head, illuminated by the streetlights. Deciding to stop smoking that morning certainly hadn't worked. So he enjoyed it while he could, knowing that every decision he made from here until there was an anwser would mean somewhere, he would cause pain to the man he wanted to protect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter today. Love writing these, but time continues to get crunched, so I will post what I can! I hope you enjoy :)


	8. Oath

         When Sherlock finally made it back into the hospital, Greg and Molly were just leaving. They passed in the hallway, Greg stopping to question Sherlock and Sherlock dodging the D.I.'s interrogation techniques with skill.   
It all ended with smiles and hugs. Sherlock was a little overwhelmed by all the hugging that was going on. People really felt a closeness over the birth of children. Not that it was a poor reason. Not that he hadn't felt something, himself. But the freedom of hug-giving had certainly come as a surprise. And he hadn't even seen Mrs. Hudson yet. 

         John was sitting back in his chair outside the door where Sherlock had left him. He was looking very weary, rubbing his hands together and staring at the floor.   
Very tired. Very much a man trying to sort out too many things at once.   
He looked up as Sherlock strode down the hallway towards him, his coat folded over his arm. 

"Where have you been?"

"Out for a smoke. Got a call from Mycroft. You know how that goes." he said, fluttering his hand into the air to fill what wasn't said. 

"Hah." John laughed, "I sure do." A pause. "So, you're smoking again?"

"Yes."

John let out a heavy breath and looked up into Sherlocks eyes. "Just smoking, yeah? That's all?"

Sherlock knitted his brow, looking at John's questioning gaze. Did John believe that he was still using? He supposed it wouldn't be all that hard to comprehend, considering how he looked. Thin as a rail, pale, and even after his careful dressing he still gave the impression of being somewhat unkempt. He felt his shoulders drop. He looked like an addict. He was an addict. And just as manic as ever.   
"Yes. Just Smoking. Unless you count the bottle of Scotch that nearly did me in last night."   
John stuck out his chin, but Sherlock could see his shoulders relax. "You drank my scotch?"

"I didn't think you would mind."

Another pause, charged with unsaid words. John smiled at him with a bite of remorse. It was plain on his face. Dear, John. Always an open book. His eyes would betray him to the last.  
Sherlock sat down beside him.  John began rubbing his hands together again.

"I...I..."  
He looked at John, who continued to stare at his hands. His lips pursed, then his head bowed.  
"I'm so sorry."

Sherlock was struck by the admission, his face losing the harshness he carried as he let the words settle in his ears. John rubbed his hands over his face and sat up to look at Sherlock, who did not waiver while he waited. John saw the signs of his friend processing his apology. It reminded him a little of when he had asked Sherlock to be his best man, but different. There was an edge of deeper sadness to this. He knew that he had hurt his friend. He knew. Because Sherlock practically shut down to process the things that were buried in the emotional. So he let him think a moment, then went on. 

  
"I...Sherlock, I never should have..." A frustrated sigh escaped him.

"I never should have lost faith in you. But I have. Over and over. And you...well, you never lost faith in me. Even when you should have." Silence as John gathered together his words, licking his lips. "I abandoned you. I did. Because I was angry. Because I was afrai-" He stopped abruptly, clearly re-thinking his almost-statement. "I just want you to know. I am sorry."

Sherlock didn't move. He didn't blink. John wasn't even sure he was breathing for a moment or two. Then the wires slid back into place and he was online once more. His eyes focused on John, and John didn't try to hide from them.   
"Thank you."   
John nodded. And they sat together in silence as the hospital halls grew quiet.

 

***

 

 Sherlock's shoulder ached. His arm was numb. He was warm though, and in no hurry to move even as he felt the pull of wakefulness rush in his body. He blinked into the florescent lighting of the hospital. There were people walking past. A few young nurses smirked as they hurried by.   
He must have fallen asleep. He was still in the hallway and -  _oh._  
 

He turned his head to find his friend slumped against him, his head resting against his chest. Sherlock's arm was numb because it was wrapped around the shoulders of one John Watson.

He searched back into his memory. He remembered the apology. He remembered sitting quietly. He had been thinking. Thinking because there was so much to think about. Because he knew he had to protect John.   
He remembered John's head starting to droop. He had wanted to go find him a pillow, or a blanket, or a better place to rest. But John's head had come to rest on Sherlock's shoulder and he didn't have the heart, nor the will, to try and move him. He must have dozed off sometime afterward. And the end result was this. 

The question of what time it was entered Sherlocks brain. He considered reaching for his phone. He considered waking John, if only to spare him the embarrassment of waking on his own to find them this way. But in the end he decided to accept whatever consequences were waiting when he opened his eyes, and stayed where he was. 

Johns hair smelled like tea. Sherlock knew that could not really be possible. They hadn't even been around tea for at least a full day. But it didn't change the fact.

It made him remember all those evenings they spent together; John reading some rubbish novel while he sifted through scientific papers. How John's presence in the room made it feel differently, all light and warmth and comfort. Perhaps tea had simply become synonymous with John. Warmth in a world of coldness. The perfect antidote to life in general. A cup of tea, and the company of John.

He swallowed, a physical attempt to bury the memory. It wasn't healthy to indulge in nostalgic ideals. He had done far too much of that in the recent weeks, and all it had brought him was a sharper sense of his loneliness. It was hard not to think of those things now, though, with them huddled together in this way. John's body heat radiated through his clothes and warmed him right through. His even breaths made his body rise and fall in an easy rhythm. Sherlock felt John's hand twitch, and realized it was pressed against the outside of his thigh. He was nearly sitting on it. He attempted to move away, just a fraction, to free John's hand and let the blood flow back into his arm. Slowly, slowly...but it was too much.  
 

John sucked in a deep breath and blinked into consciousness. Sherlock froze, trying not to look or feel guilty. He was unsure why he would be. John had clearly leaned into him.   
"Hmm, Sherlock?" John said groggily, lifting his face to look up at him. 

Sherlock stifled his desire to smile. "Good morning. I think." he said.   
John blinked as he started up, trying to process where he was. It was coming into focus, and John realized what he was doing. He furrowed his brow and lifted himself back into sitting. "Oh. Sorry."  
Sherlock pulled his arm back around and free of John's weight. "No. It's. Fine." Circulation returned and he wiggled his fingers as pins and needles came alive in his skin.   
He was much colder now. 

John rubbed his face, his cheek red and his hair ruffled from where it had been pressed against Sherlocks suit jacket. He looked at his friend sheepishly.   
Sherlock only offered a crooked grin.   
John excused himself and went in search of water and to check on his baby.   
Sherlock let out a long sigh, digging his phone out of his pocket.   
5:30 a.m.   
They must have been asleep for at least 4 hours. That was probably the most sleep he had gotten in one stretch since he was sent to prison without drugging or drinking himself out. Not bad.

 He got up and searched out a loo, shutting himself into one off the hall. Turning on the tap, he let the water run through his fingers before cupping his hand and slurping a few small mouthfuls. It was stale-tasting, but still refreshing. He splashed a little on his face and turned off the tap, drying off with a paper towel. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked strange to himself. A hint of happiness was determined to stay pinned to his features.   
Perhaps he had finally lost his mind.  
He went back to the hall and sat down, opening his phone and distracting himself by reading up on small-infant care.

John returned some time later with a hopeful smile and a bundle in his arms. Sherlock stood, recognizing the wrapped blanket of pink and yellow. John was carrying his daughter. 

The morning shift nurse was walking with him. The little one had slept fitfully. She had not shown any signs of trouble with breathing, heart rate, and since she was fairly near to the 6lb mark, Doctor Younge had left instructions that she be released to the care of her family today. John was beaming.   
The nurse was still talking to John, who was listening and nodding, already having a good idea of how to care for a premature infant. After all, he was a doctor.  

Sherlock didn't hear a word of it, though. He was staring at the wee human in John's careful arms. She was absolutely the tiniest thing he had ever seen. Her little hands clenched atop the edge of her blanket, wrapped carefully around her miniature frame. She looked better today. Bruises aside, she looked very healthy. Her eyes were open and she wasn't fussing. In fact, it almost looked like she was observing. Following the sound of the voices above her, looking for their source and drinking in the images.   
He realized, once again too late, that John was speaking to him.

"-rlock? Would you...would you like to hold her?"

Sherlock looked up with a start.  
"Hold her?"

John looked concerned. "Yeah. No pressure. But you seem pretty interested. You can...if you like."

Sherlock had never been so nervous in his life. But he pressed his lips together and nodded.

That must have been the right answer, because both John and the nurse with him smiled.

John walked right up to him, and Sherlock did his best to make an acceptable cradle out of his arms. John slowly lowered the bundle into his waiting limbs. He felt Sherlock take her weight and gently pulled his own hands away, taking care to make sure her head was properly supported. She made a short cry, then quieted.

Sherlock held her with all the care he was capable. Gazing down at her little face, he took in every feature, every blink, every bit of her that he could see and feel. Her weight, her warmth, the way she smelled. He was cataloging every piece of information on this brand new human. The lump that had been in this throat the day before returned. This time, it was harder to swallow. There was something obscuring his vision. A blurry substance. Wet.   
_Oh._

  
  John watched his friend hold his child for the first time. He didn't think Sherlock would want to. He had been afraid to ask him, but glad now the he did. The sight of them together sent warmth spreading through his chest. It welled to almost a pain when Sherlock smiled. John had never seen that smile before. His eyes were shining. It took a moment for him to realize why.

'How could I have doubted this man?' he thought.

The nurse patted his shoulder. "I will go and check on Mrs. Watson."

John hardly heard her. He was lost in another place.  Sherlock looked up at him, his lips curved upward, his eyes shining and honest.

"Well done, John." he said.   
John smiled and came back to retrieve his baby girl. Sherlock tried to do the same as John had done to pass her carefully. He leaned into John's arms and slowly lowered her weight into them. John looked up at Sherlock, catching his eyes.

His heart jumped in his chest, turning to double time.  
Those radiant eyes were fixed on his, as they had been many times before. This time, however, there was an openness that had been previously shut to him, something shared that had not been before. A message sent in only an instant, then left to be interpreted by the receiver. John wasn't sure he understood. But it made his pulse race, in any case.

Sherlock stepped back, giving John back his only child. His arms felt cold again. Perhaps he was destined to feel the cold, constantly releasing that which he desired to keep. He hoped that John had understood him. Understood what he had been wishing he could say out loud. The oath he had whispered in his heart as he looked down at Johns little child. 

That he would never fail them. 

He hoped, but knew that his friend wasn't one for picking up on subtleties.   
And then reality crashed in on him, remembering what he should have done the night before. John looked up at him and saw that momentary softness turn back to harsh angles and quick thoughts. He watched the protective mask slip back over Sherlocks features and wondered what had affected the change.

Then he heard the nurse running up the hall. Sherlock spun around to meet her. She was pale, out of breath as much from disbelief as from racing around. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlocks voice boomed like a bass note. 

"Mary is gone."

 


	9. Downward

 

           John was sitting in the now-empty delivery room, feeding his daughter formula from a bottle. She had taken it with relatively little coaxing, and had a strong suckle. He stared down at her little face, and she stared back, her dark blue eyes blinking as the drank her meal.   
John felt surprisingly calm. The hospital staff had swept the whole building for signs of his missing wife. Mycroft had appeared out of thin air about a half hour after it was discovered that she was gone. Lestrade turned up shortly thereafter. Sherlock had crawled over every inch of the delivery room, checked every exit, tested every window she could reasonably open. He was now off somewhere berating security over their incompetence. Mycroft was probably with him. Lestrade had tried to offer him some assurance that he would help find her. Poor sap. He had no idea who Mary really was. As a matter of fact, neither did John.  
Everyone seemed to be in an uproar. 

Except him.  
He had felt shock at first. Alarm.  
Fear for her.  
Fear for himself.  
Fear for his child, abandoned so soon after birth.

         It had raced in his blood and clouded his mind as soon as the revelation left Sherlocks lips. He had started to sway, more with uncertainty about what to do next than actually feeling faint. His friend had been there, his sturdy hand on John's shoulder, asking him if he was alright. Did he need to sit down?  John had started at him, not quite sure he was understanding the words. He let Sherlock guide him over to a chair. John noticed that he had kept his one hand on his shoulder, and the other over his arms. His arms that held the baby. Almost as though he were afraid John would let go.  
He had been ready to catch her.   
The memory of it now played over. Hand on his shoulder, hand on his arm. Protection. Support. Just what he needed at that moment. Just what he always needed.   
His eyes prickled while he looked at her. He was too tired for any more tears. He hadn't shed this many tears in 24 hours since... _since the fall_.  
He shoved that memory back. He couldn't handle it now. Not now.   
       Her eyelids had started to drop. She was dozing. Dozing in his arms for the first time. A smile played on his lips as he watched her drift into the dark, restful peace of sleep. "Our first day together." he whispered. "And I love you already."   
He looked over at the empty bed, blankets tossed aside, abandoned IV hanging from the stand, monitors now quiet. It felt unfair. It felt cruel. But it didn't feel like heartbreak. He wondered what that could mean.   
The door slid open and Sherlock quietly stepped into the room. He looked guilty. His downcast eyes and ashen face sending red flag flying in Johns hindbrain.   
"John...Do you have a moment?"  
He looked down at the infant in his arms. Her lips had stopped pulling on the bottle and he gradually moved it away from her mouth and put it down beside him.   
"I just need to set her down. Then we can talk." He whispered.   
He lowered her into the bassinet that had been rolled into Mary's room, yet unused. Her tiny arms shot up as John lowered her into the plastic-and cotton lined cradle, but relaxed as soon as she was set down. He fixed her tiny knitted cap on her head and carefully stepped away. He made to leave the room, step into the hallway, but Sherlock stopped him. 

"I would rather talk to you privately."  
John furrowed his brow. "Why? What's going on? Did you find something?"   
Sherlock sighed, the years of strain briefly showing on his face. "Yes."  
"What is it?"  
 He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the plastic baggie, opening it up. John's eyes widened. Colour rushed into his cheeks as he looked inside, blinking repeatedly.   
"These...these are...induction medications."  
Sherlock nodded.   
"But where...how? How?" He asked, trying to keep his voice calm and under control.   
"Last night. I called someone to...help."  
"Called someone? Called who? Called to...to dig through my bins?"  
Sherlock was quiet a moment, then answered in a low voice. "I couldn't leave you. But I needed to know."  
John took the bag out of his hands and stared at it's contents.  
"Are you sure?"  
Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Do you doubt?"  
John shook his head. A wash of exhaustion swept over him. How could he not have seen the signs? It was so clear to him, now.   
"But how could she? How could she..."  
Sherlock frowned. His heart twisted in his chest as he watched John break into miserable understanding. He saw the pain that passed behind his eyes, imagining his wife making up such a plan, putting the life of his only child on the line in order to disappear.   
"I'm sorry, John."  
  
      John's heart began to race. The calm that he had enjoyed with some guilt was crashed into and swept away by a surge of panic.   
He was alone. He had a tiny, premature baby to care for and he was alone. His breath came in shallow gasps, the room starting to swim in his vision.   
"John?"  
His knees buckled and he saw the room pitch and twist around him. He was falling.   
But he didn't hit the floor.   
Arms grabbed him. He heard something smash. The baggie. And then there was crying. The baby.  
"Sher-Shhh-" he couldn't speak. He was seized by a full-blown panic attack.   
The arms were helping him, lowering him down to sit on the floor. Sherlocks arms. He was stronger than he looked, for all his meager appearance.   
"It's alright, John. It's okay. Breathe, alright? Breathe."   
John focused on the voice that vibrated in his ear. Sherlock was holding him, sitting on his knees on the cold, hard floor. He felt the hand that held his body upright laying firm and flat against his back. The other held his face, willing him to look up.  
  
       Sherlock had done the best he could without leaving John. He had gone over every piece of dust in the maternity ward, looking for signs of Mary. He had found a few clues, but very few. She was as good as he had been made to believe. No one could recall seeing her. No one could recall checking on her after midnight. She had simply slipped away, without a sound. She could be hundreds of miles away, by now. Or she could be hiding across the city. And he had no idea where to start.   
It was infuriating.   
       Deciding to tell John about the drugs as soon as he found the oppourtunity was a decision that made his stomach knot. There was no knowing how he would react to such news. But he knew it had to be done. He had kept John in the dark before, and it had never gone particularly well.  
John's panic attack was actually not the worst outcome he had imagined.  
At first he wasn't sure what to do. His arms instinctively reached out to grab John when he buckled, slowly helping him down. It was frightening to see John like this. John was a soldier. John was fearless. John was a rock. And now he was falling apart. He closed his eyes, looking for a piece of anything that could help him calm John down. Back, way back in Sherlocks mind palace, there was something familiar. Panic; cold, relentless panic. He was a boy. Redbeard. His loyal companion. His only friend. He was going to die, and fear had swallowed him up it its endless void of night. There would be no one left who understood him, with Redbeard gone.  
But someone had been there. Someone's hands on his back and voice in his ear.   
Sherlock came back to John, his right hand straying to John's face, holding him steady and lifting John's eyes to meet his own. The words just came, echoing from his memory.  
"It's okay. I'm here. I won't leave you. I promise."

          The door to the room swung open and Lestrade entered, followed by Mycroft. They stopped short as the door slowly closed behind them. Mycroft's quick  appraisal concluded with a subtle smirk of self-satisfaction. Sherlock glared up, daring him to say something. Luckily for Mycroft, no words were produced and he settled back into his usual aloof countenance.   
Greg quickly kneeled down beside them, his hand landing gruffly on John's shoulder.  
"John? You alright?"  
John took his breaths with intention, bringing himself down and blinking back the stinging tears that stabbed at his eyes.   
Greg looked to Sherlock, who removed his hand from John's face. His cheeks burned lightly under Greg's gaze, so he turned his attention to the source of the desperate cries nearby. Sherlock stood and pulled off his jacket, throwing it to the side. Stalking tentatively to the bassinet, he felt the eyes of the room upon him. He took a deep breath before daring to pick up the little screaming child. Greg perceived a change in John's face. He seemed to come back to himself, watching Sherlock lean down into the cradle and lift the little bundle of cries and blankets.   
  
"Shhh, shh, shhh." The sounds slid from his lips rather easily.  
'Soft. Gentle.' he thought, 'That's how babies calm down.' He slowly rocked her back and forth.   
Mycroft raised his eyebrows so high, they almost moved the ceiling tiles.   
Sherlock was too busy to notice, pulling out every bit of information he had stored away from his reading early that morning. He walked up and down the room, cradling her ever so gently. "Shhhh, little one. It's alright."  
Stepping around her distraught father and the D.I., who's eyes never left them. "Shhh, shhh." Moving back toward the chair where the bottle sat, still half-full.  
He picked it up and touched it to her lips. She responded, rooting instantly and starting to drink.

Silence. 

    Sherlock had never been so proud of himself in his life. He looked up at the three men who were staring with a good deal of disbelief.  
Greg's features were open with full astonishment, Mycroft looked almost shocked and John...well, John was harder to understand. There were several feelings fighting for control of his features, and Sherlock decided not to look to closely at that internal battle. He wanted to savour his own victory.   
Greg's voice cut the silence first, directed at John. "You alright now, mate? You want to move to a chair?"  
John nodded. "Yeah...yeah. Sorry. I don't know what..." he trailed off, clearing his throat and allowing Greg to help him to his feet. Sweat greased his palms, and he apologized to Greg for it.   
"Don't worry about it. You need to just sit down for a while. You've had quite a shock." He held his arm and assisted him into the chair. "You look pale. I'll get the nurses to bring you some water." he said, turning to the door.   
     His foot hit the bag, lying open on the floor with glass smashed out the top. His eyes shot up at Sherlock, who looked back unwaveringly. Greg reached down for the bag and carefully lifted it to look inside. The syringes and vials were broken, but the pill bottles remained intact. He sucked in his cheek, understanding what had just passed between the two men before he arrived.  Mary had drugged herself into labour, then run away. Even after all he had been through with his ex-wife, he couldn't imagine how that must feel.

     Mycroft's gaze caught his eye, and he looked up into his now-expressionless face. He hadn't had much experience with Mycroft, and didn't know if he found the mysterious elder Holmes to be intimidating or a little creepy. He certainly wasn't going to argue with him, in any case. He passed the bag into Mycroft's gloved hand and looked back at John, who sat stoic in his chair.   
"Right. I'll be back with the water."

 

 

 


	10. Greg

    

       Mycroft's buttery voice smeared the air full of purposeful ideas that no one was hearing.   
John now sat with a new plastic cup of water, not bothering to drink it. The water tasted like the cup itself, so he simply held it like a preserver and peered with great interest instead at Sherlock, who's attention was all focused on the nearly-sleeping child in his arms. John's heart was in his mouth. He couldn't think of anything other than what was in front of him. He knew he was staring. He couldn't help himself. It was more than he could have ever imagined Sherlock capable of, and yet it was taking place at that very moment. 'Remarkable.' He thought. 'Brilliant. He is just brilliant.'   
        Greg leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking between the Holmes brothers and John. He couldn't hide his interest. There was obviously a great deal that had been hidden from him, some suddenly more obvious than the rest. The relationship between the consulting detective and the good doctor was keenly under his watchful gaze. But, more pressingly, it seemed that Mary was not exactly the kindly nurse who she had made herself out to be, and that truly disturbed him. He felt a keen sense of obligation to assist in discovering what happened to her. After all, John and Sherlock were something like friends to him. Possibly the only real friends he had.  
His face twisted at the realization. When had that happened?  
It became apparent that he had stopped listening when Mycroft smacked the tip of his umbrella against the dull tile, cracking the room to attention. All faces turned to him, and his shoulders relaxed once more. "There we are, gentlemen. Perhaps we can all wake ourselves up and come to some sort of  _understanding._ "

Sherlock shot Mycroft an acid glare as the baby began to fuss in his arms again, startled by the sudden noise. He replied coolly to the splash of anger. "Given the nature of our conversation, brother, perhaps it would be best if the child was given to the care of the nurses for the time being. I am sure they will have no trouble looking after Doctor Watson's offspring while we give our attention to the matter _at hand_."   
Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's insistence of emphasizing the end of every statement. An irritating habit he had formed years ago, lending importance to every annoyingly heavy sentence he uttered. John seemed to agree, however, and in a moment Sherlock was handing the child over to a pleasantly-featured young woman in pink scrubs.

     Once she was gone from the room he settled back into his analytical and distant self, obviously provoked by his sheer lack of information. Pacing the room, he crossed his arms over his chest, then put one hand to his mouth, biting on the edge of his fingers. Mycroft started up again.  
"Doctor Watson, given what we know about Miss Morstan and her history, or rather, what we _chose not to know_ ," he said, letting the words hang in the air a moment, "I think it best if you and the child not return to your home."  
John felt Mycroft's chiding comment burrow under his skin. He was right, and that was beyond irritating.   
"And what of all my things? All my daughter's things?"  
Mycroft answered swiftly. "That is being taken care of."  
"So you decided this before even consulting me?" John said, feeling bristled. " You just decide things and that's that. All of you, eh?"

       He stuffed his face into his hands, overcome with one hundred conflicting emotions that all wanted to amass as anger. He rubbed his forehead and pulled at his hair, letting the dull pain clear his brain. "So then, where shall we go? Stay in London? Or go off into hiding? Some cheapo apartment in Brixton?" He asked, looking directly at Mycroft, carefully avoiding Sherlocks eyes. He didn't want to give the impression of asking to come back to Baker Street. He didn't want this to fall on Sherlock. This was his own mess, and he alone should have to clean it up.   
Sherlock answered without needing to be prompted. "You'll come home, John."  
Once again, the eyes of the room all turned to him.   
     He was standing by the window, his wrinkled white shirt hanging from his frame, half untucked. His hair was shining in the dim light of the grey mid-morning, his pale skin looking like it was almost glowing. John's throat tightened.   
"Home?" He said, his voice a cracking, little thing.   
Sherlock turned to him, his hand falling away from his lips and his eyes regarding John warmly. "Yes, John. Home."

 

        The meeting was effectively dissolved after that point as Mycroft announced he had to be on his way. It ended with an exhausted John Watson taking a nap in the abandoned delivery room. No one bothered to ask them to leave. No one would have dared to ask them anything with Mycroft present. And even after his sudden departure, the hospital staff stayed clear. So  the room remained their own. Sherlock stood outside the door, sending out texts to his homeless network. He expected to hear news find it's way through them eventually. Greg approached him, hands stuffed deeply into the pockets of his jacket. Noticing an approach that implied more serious conversation, he slipped the phone away.   
  
Greg started with uncertainty.   
"So...all that time, you knew who she was?"  
Sherlock nodded.   
"And you still tried to save her? Why?"  
He frowned, considering the best response. "I did it for my friend."   
Greg nodded. "Right."  
Silence fell over them a moment while he digested the answer.  
"But she shot you?"  
Sherlock winced, offering no reply. Greg nodded again, considering the facts.  
"And your fake death? Did that for your friend, yeah?"  
Sherlock looked away from the D.I, not enjoying where this was heading. He was tired. He got weak when he was tired.   
Greg continued his line of questioning. "And the best-man thing? You did that for him too, of course. I mean, why not? Practically planned the whole thing for them."  
This was getting too close to home. It needed to stop.  
Greg's brow knotted, his eyes darkening like they did when he made big connections.  
"You told him you loved him. On his wedding day. In front of all his friends. In front of her..."  
Sherlock pushed himself off the wall suddenly and bumped past Lestrade.  
"Sod off."  
  
         His long legs carried him swiftly down the corridor, opting to take the stairs to the main floor. He burst through the front doors and ducked around the corner, slipping the pack of cigarettes the he pick-pocketed from Greg out of his sleeve. Pulling one from the pack, he began searching in vain for a light.   
A small flame burst to life in front of him, held out by the Detective Inspector himself. Sherlock felt his body sag, but leaned toward it none the less.   
"Keep them. I've got another." he said, producing an unopened pack from his inner pocket.   
He smoked in silence as Greg unwrapped the cellophane and lit up with an air of casual companionship. He took a deep drag and exhaled a blue-ish cloud before looking to Sherlock.   
  
"There's no shame in it, you know."  
  
Sherlock scowled, fingers trembling in spite of his effort to control them. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
A loud, sudden laugh made him jump. Greg was nearly having a fit. His weary features were alight with humor. His eyes sparkled with it, his laughter genuine. It took a moment for him to calm down.   
"Never, in all the years I've known you," he said, "have you EVER not known what I was talking about!" he chuckled as the took another drag. "You've known what I was talking about before I've even spoken. You've known before I've formed a thought."   
He looked to Sherlock, smiling at the sour face that looked back.  
"Listen, I'm not trying to mess with you. But I'm just saying, it's all fine."  
Sherlock shrank into himself, clutching his cigarette. "Yes, I have heard that before." he said bitterly.  
The mirth went out of Greg's face, and his steady hand patted Sherlock's shoulder. "You've done everything for him. I'm not so blind as you think. And, if you give it a little time, he might see it, too."  
  
      Sherlock looked at him for an instant with eyes that were both pained and hopeful, and Greg felt an affection for the man that he hadn't known he possessed.   
The moment was brief, however. Sherlock wasted no time pulling himself back together, flicking his cigarette away down the sidewalk and standing upright.   
"Thanks for the light." He said, walking back toward the doors.   
Greg smiled sadly. "Yeah. Anytime."

 

 


	11. Coming Home

 

 

       Mrs. Hudson was bustling around her flat, making up a batch of John's favorite scones and a fine beef stew.   
The carpenters had arrived en masse shortly after 9 that morning, and the sound of pounding nails and saws and grinders had not ceased for a moment. Of course, she had expected them. A phone call from Mycroft Holmes was something of a special event for her, and nothing could be ruled out when his number flashed on her caller ID. She turned up the telly, trying to drown out the sounds of hasty renovations with an episode of Coronation Street.   
She had to admit to herself, while it was all dreadfully unfortunate that Mary should disappear like a ghost in the night, she was more than pleased to know that John would be coming home. And with his daughter. More than once she needed to stop her cooking to fan herself, a flutter of delight and emotion pouring over her sentimental heart, filling her eyes with happy tears. She would be a grandmother, in a sense. There was nothing better in the world than that hopeful thought.  
The sound of shop-vacs at work signaled the end of the reno. She checked her scones quickly before scuttling off to see what the fellows had got done in such a short time. As she opened the door, a few of the men nodded politely as they carried out boxes of tools, levels and bits of wood. She waved them off on their way and crept up the stairs to see what there was to see. 

 

         It was clear that John was still in shock. He had regarded Sherlock with some trepidation when he emerged from his nap, his eyes still looking just as dark underneath and his lips still downturned at the edges. He had stood to meet him, offering him a solemn nod and little else. Greg came back up to walk them out. He stood nearby as John anxiously fitted his daughter into her new car seat. He had forgotten it at home when they had raced out the morning previous, but magically it had turned up along with a few other necessary items. The nurse who had been charged with the care of the little one helped him, with gentle hands and soft instruction. She repeatedly told John how lovely of a baby she was. John smiled wearily at her compliments, tightening the straps just so.   
         Greg kept stealing glances at Sherlock, who was pretending not to notice. He had chosen not to say a word since returning inside, worried that he might reveal more than he already clearly had. Once they were ready, John thanked the nurse and shook her hand, turning away with his child and his bag and not once looking back.   
There was a car waiting for them outside. Sherlock shook his head at his brother's preparations, torn between being inwardly grateful and outwardly bothered. John delicately loaded the car seat inside, stopping to admire the little face at the centre of all that safety equipment. Then he crawled back out to collect his bag and shake Greg's hand.   
"Thank you, Greg. For being here."  
The D.I. shook his head. "Don't bother thanking me. You know if you ever need anything..."  
John nodded. He turned back to the car and got inside. Greg turned to Sherlock, offering his hand. Sherlock shook it silently and went around to the far door, climbing in and shutting it behind him. As the black sedan pulled away from the curb, Lestrade pulled out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. Then reached into his pocket for his lighter. He furrowed his brow. His pocket was empty. He patted his other pockets. His lighter wasn't the only thing missing. 

Sherlock's phone buzzed. He chuckled as he looked at the screen. John turned his head away from the window, curious. Sherlock held up Greg's badge and lighter.   
The sound of their restrained laughter filled the back of the car.

 

        Baker street was waiting for them, and John would be lying if he said he wasn't anticipating the familiar rooms, smells and comfort of the life he was forced to leave behind so many years ago. It was a startling thought, that so much time had passed since he had been a resident of those beloved rooms. He thought back over the old days. Certainly now everything was different, and a chance at the life that could have been died the moment he lost Sherlock.   
But maybe it wasn't so lost as he had come to believe.   
Sherlock had said to him that he should come home _._  
Home.   
  
      His stomach fizzed at the memory of those words. At the image of him in the window, looking so artfully disheveled. It seemed almost sinful for anyone to look so good under such a circumstance. And then that guilt reared it's ugly, unwelcome head again. How could he think about such a thing, with all that had happened? He chastised himself silently, squeezing his hands together until it hurt.   
Thankfully, his thoughts were cut short as the car slid up to the curb. The gold numbers and the straitened knocker against the dark door made his heart jump. He was really going back. This was real.  
      Sherlock nearly leaped out of the car door, anxious to get John and baby settled inside. They had been through quite enough, and he was determined to see that they would be comfortable. He opened John's door and took the bag from him while John collected the car seat and it's precious cargo. The car door shut and it soundlessly moved back into traffic. John looked at Sherlock, who looked back with a glint of pleasure in his eyes.   
The door to 221B opened before they had a chance to step forward, and Mrs. Hudson erupted into the street, all tears and smiles. She practically attacked John, throwing her arms around him and pressing a salty kiss to his cheek. John accepted her outpouring of affection with composure, wrapping his free arm around her back and smiling as she held his face in her hands. 

"Oh, John!" she said. "You look so very tired."  
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I know."  
Her eyes fell on the baby, wrapped up in the seat. Her hands flew to her mouth, tears forming afresh. She looked like she might just burst right then and there, leaving behind nothing but a dishtowel and apron.  
"Ohhhh, my word." She said, wiping her eyes. "Ohhhh, she is so lovely, John. You must be so proud. Oh, my."  
Sherlock interjected, seeing that this was not going to stop any time soon.   
"Can we continue this inside, Mrs. Hudson. This really isn't the place for your...sentimental scene."  
Mrs. Hudson tutted at him, offering a harmless glare and a half-hidden smirk. "Well, wait till you see the changes about."  
Sherlock's face fell. "What do you mean,  _changes?_ " he asked.  
"I'm surprised your brother didn't tell you." She said, smiling a knowing smile.   
Sherlock would not wait any longer. He strode into the house and mounted the stairs two at a time, stopping halfway. John and Mrs. Hudson followed behind.   
He was standing on the stairs, staring. John had to catch up a little to see why.   
"There's a wall."  
Sherlock snapped his head around. "How observant of you."  
Mrs. Hudson joined them. "It's perfect." She said. "You'll see."

Inside the flat, things looked much the same with a few important differences.

First, it was cleaner than Sherlock had left it. Mycroft had evidently found his particular brand of filth to be unfit for his flatmates.

Secondly, John's things were unloaded against the far wall of the living room. John's and baby's, including a bassinet, a box of nappies, bottles and all sorts of bags.

Thirdly, and most drastic among the changes, was the new attachment to John's old room.  
Where it had once been a separate hall and separate room altogether, now it was an addition. The stairs up to 221B ended at the doors, and only by entering the flat could one access the upper room. 

       Sherlock was surprisingly pleased by this change. Where he had expected to be full of wrath at Mycroft's insufferable meddling, he instead found a hint of warmth for the imposing sod. He started up the staircase to the now-secondary room of his flat. Mrs. Hudson let out a little squeal of delight behind him. John followed.   
He stopped at the top of the stairs. It was mostly the same as before, a double bed made up, a dresser and a bookshelf, but with the addition of a smaller dresser and a crib, complete with blankets and, of course, a baby monitor. Mycroft lived for surveillance.  
John looked at it in disbelief.   
"Is this...did he really do this?"  
Sherlock looked at his friend. John was clearly moved by the gesture, and he didn't know how to respond. So he reached out and let his hand rest on John's shoulder. He knew that was the right thing to do when John smiled. 

       Mrs. Hudson brought up a tray of stew and scones for her beloved boys, back home at last. John and Sherlock had been moving things about the place for the hour previous, barely aware that she had been chatting up a storm about the goings-on of the day. When she returned with the food, they were arguing over where to place the bassinet in the living room. Sherlock was indignant that John should disagree with him. Of course his choice was the most logical. Near the fireplace, but not too close, near their chairs, away from the window, but still within the light so that she will get the benefit of vitamin D while she napped. John felt it would be best on the other side of the room, away from the fireplace and closer to the sofa where she is less likely to be exposed to Sherlocks kitchen experiments. She set down the food and listened to their lively quarrel a moment before Sherlock insisted she take his side. 

"You must have an opinion, Mrs. Hudson. Look here. John says not, but I think it will do very well."  
She could not bear to hide her smile under rounding cheeks, letting out a little burst of giggles that stopped them both.   
"Listen to you two. Parents for a day and already on about what's best for the little one. Come and have a bite to eat. It will settle you both down."  
Taking the lid off the stew, she let the rich smell of beef and root vegetables fill the flat. John's mouth watered and his stomach called out for sustenance. He hadn't had a bite to eat all day. He dropped the argument and followed the smells to the kitchen table, eyes filled with food lust. Even Sherlock looked hungry, his gaze falling on the tray against his will.   
      Mrs. Hudson grinned. "Eat up. That little girl needs you both to be in good condition to take care of her. Speaking of, have you thought of a name for her?" She asked, looking at John who was eagerly scooping his first helping into a bowl. He paused to look across the room to where she was. She had fallen asleep after a change and another feeding, resting now in the bassinet whose position had caused so much conflict.   
"You know, I hadn't actually stopped to name her yet. Good lord."  
Sherlock reached out and grabbed at a scone from the top of a heaping plateful.  
"You have time, John. The government requires a legal name within 42 days. There is no rush." He said, taking a bite.   
"Yeah, I know." He said, "But all the same. She's my daughter and I haven't even thought of naming her." He looked disappointed in himself, his hand falling from the ladle.   
Mrs. Hudson spoke up to soothe him.  
"Don't feel bad, John dear. Many people take their time naming their babies. It's not like the old days where you picked out something like Christopher or Harriett months ahead and that was that. Parents now like to get to know their children first. And I think it's lovely."  
Her words worked their wonders and John accepted them, scooping up another ladleful and grabbing a scone for himself.  
She sat with them while they ate, watching the food tray empty off in a short time. It made her heart full, seeing Sherlock eating and talking and smiling again. She couldn't bear to watch him self-destruct any more. Too many times, now. He deserved to be happy. 

      Once the trays were empty and Mrs Hudson cleared out of the flat (assuring them that she was just a shout away if they should need any help), John felt his weariness wash over him. He moved from the table into his old chair by the empty fireplace, yawning. Sherlock went to his desk, sitting himself down and started looking through a few files that Lestrade had dropped by over the past weeks, attempting to entice him out of the flat. He shot a few glances over at John, who was looking worriedly into the distance. His lips were tightly drawn, his forehead screwed into a mess of lines. It unsettled him. So he began shuffling papers and mumbling about "Obvious", "Dull", and "Idiots at the Met". John grinned, his shoulders relaxing as he listened. Slowly, he settled fully into his chair. When Sherlock looked back again, John was asleep. 

He smiled at him, no longer needing to keep guarded with no one watching.   
"Welcome home, John."

 


	12. Mary, Mary, quite contrary.

 

 

         John woke in the darkness of night to the sound of crying. He looked around the flat. Sherlock was missing. His neck and back protested as he tried to stand, stiff from sleeping in his favorite chair. It took a moment longer to get to his feet than he would have expected, but he got there and was soon moving across the room to the aid of his little girl.   
"Hey, hey, little one," he soothed. "It's alright. Shhh."  
He reached down and lifted her carefully in his hands. She was startlingly tiny with a furious voice. She would certainly run his life forever. He tucked her close to his chest and gently rocked her while she cried. He wanted to make her a bottle. She would be needing to fill her tiny tummy again. But he needed another set of hands. He looked to the clock. Quarter past midnight. Too late to ask Mrs. Hudsons assistance.   
  
        The door to the flat opened and Sherlock stepped through, pulling off his Belstaff.   
"Where have you been off to?" John asked. Sherlock pulled up his shirtsleeve and showed John the patches stuck there.   
"Can't smoke with a preemie living here. Thought I would stop." He said, hanging up his coat.  
John didn't know what to say, his mouth opening and closing without words. Sherlock turned away from them and walked to the kitchen. He heard the flick of the kettle and the sounds of rummaging and containers opening. He walked around the wall to see what he was doing.   
He was making up a bottle. Would wonders never cease?  
"How...how did you learn to do that?" He asked, trying to hide the wonder in his voice.  
Sherlock didn't look up. "The internet, John. Full of useful things. Make a bottle. Calm a baby. Build a bomb." He shook the formula and tested it on his forearm. "Not just a dumping ground for your personal dramas."   
        When he turned around, John was right behind him. Sherlock's impassive face faltered for a moment, seeing his friend so exhausted and so impressed and so...what was that look in his eyes? He passed the bottle. John took it and looked down at his daughter, urging her to take the nourishment. It took a few moments, but she did. The poor little thing was so drowsy that it was hard to get her to drink as much as she should. John walked her around the flat until he felt she had taken enough. Then she dozed again and silence fell. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, watching from the corners of his vision. There would be little sleep had around here for the next few months. Not that it would do much harm to him, but John would surely suffer. He was glad he had done his research. His help would be needed.   
         John set the little bundle down in her bassinet again and flopped into his chair, bottle still in hand. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and the doctor, whose face was once more a complex composition of thoughts and emotions. He was looking toward his daughter, sleeping once more in the dead of night, wondering when she would wake again to feed. Wondering if the formula would nourish her the way he knew breastmilk would have. Wondering if he could possibly substitute the warmth and love a mother would give.  
Wondering how Sherlock had become his partner in this.  
Wondering how long that would last?  
  
"I'm not leaving you, John." He said, matter of factly.   
  
John's eyes abruptly turned to him. "What...how..."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, his hands steepled in front of his mouth. "Obvious, John. Any idiot could see it."  
John felt himself shrink into his jumper a little. How many of his thoughts had been read today? He swallowed, then actually heard the words. ' _I'm not leaving you...'_  
He sat back up and put the bottle down at his feet, taking a deep breath. Then another. It took 4 of them before he had the courage to meet Sherlocks gaze.   
"This...I mean...this is not going to be easy. And she...you can't..." He was already stumbling. Sherlock didn't move. He looked perfectly calm.   
Of course, John couldn't read his pulse from the space between them. Couldn't hear his heart pounding in his chest. Couldn't see that behind those carefully maintained eyes there was a terrible thread of fear. John might not appreciate his offer. He might not want him to help. Might not want him at all.   
Doubt it a dangerous thing.   
John looked at this feet and swallowed."Thank you, Sherlock." He said, peeking up.  
Sherlock nodded.   
And that was that. 

           John woke in his bedroom upstairs. He was still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing for the past few days. His mouth tasted horrid, unbrushed teeth finally making themselves known. He sat up and looked around, blinking at the dull morning light.   
His old bedroom. Still felt like home. He let his tired eyes travel around the room.  
The crib. His daughter!   
He lept to his feet and looked in the crib. Empty. His heart lurched. The door to his room was open and he hurried down the stairs. His feet hit the floor of the living room and the sound of voices drifted from the kitchen.  
Mrs. Hudson, "I would never have thought you were so well-adapted for this sort of thing, dear. I am so proud of-"  
Sherlock, "Hold her head up higher, for gods sake."  
"Oh, hush, dear. She's perfectly alright."  
The smell of tea. John let out a calming breath and took a step. The floorboard creaked.  
  
"Good morning, John."   
  
John sighed and walked around the corner.   
Mrs. Hudson beamed at him. "Good morning, dear."  
"Good morning Mrs. Hudson." He said, looking to Sherlock. "Did she? Umm, was she crying? Did I not hear her?"  
Sherlock took a drink from his mug and sat down across from Mrs. Hudson. He was dressed in his sweatpants and t-shirt and blue robe. John's eyes moved over him unconsciously, taking in the shape of his body under his most informal clothing. It was comforting. It was familiar. It was him as John remembered. His eyes looked back up to meet Sherlock's. There was a barely-concealed look of satisfaction there. John remembered that Mrs. Hudson was watching them and looked away, searching for a mug for himself.   
His flatmate finally answered. "I was up. I heard a sound and thought it might be good to let you sleep a little longer."  
John's chest went warm.   
      Mrs. Hudson spoke up. "That _is_ a kindness. So many new parents are at each others throats as soon as the sleep gets scarce. Yet here you are, getting on so well." She sighed, looking down at the sleeping face she held. John stiffened. Had she just referred to them as new parents a second time? Was that even incorrect?  
His brow crinkled, remembering the brief but honest exchange in the middle of the night. He looked at the back of Sherlock's form, sitting upright and easy, drinking from his mug. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, his features relaxing. His mouth still tasted horrible.  
"If she's still alright, I think I might pop into the shower."  
Mrs. Hudson didn't look up. "She's just fine, love."  
Sherlock turned his head. "You'll find your toothbrush is already there."  
John quirked a grin. "Is that a hint?"  
Sherlock lifted the cup to his lips. "A suggestion."  
John huffed a little laugh, his fingers brushing Sherlock's shoulder as he passed out of the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson glanced up, noting the slight change in colour on her dear boy's neck. She controlled herself, but it was difficult. 

 

      John let the warm water run over his head and down his body, muscles relaxing under the spray. He closed his eyes. There were a thousand questions churning in his head, a thousand anxious thoughts that were determined to overthrow him. Yet he found himself feeling something very opposite. He took a deep breath through his nose. The smells; warm water, Sherlocks soap, the lingering smell of toothpaste and aftershave that had been left open.   
Comfort. Familiar. Home.   
Those words kept rising above the other thoughts in his mind, like cream. Better than the rest. Richer.   
He opened his eyes when the sting on his palm started up. The bandage looked a little dingey, so he peeled it off, wet and sopping, and threw it into the bin.   
His hand already looked a little better. The redness had receded. He would have to bandage it up again, but he had managed to ignore the injury without it getting infected. Lucky.   
           
        Soap and water and steam had him feeling refreshed once more as he turned off the taps. He wrapped up in a towel and opened the door. Mycroft's voice now joined the other two. 'So much for a bit of peace.' He thought. He stepped into the hall and was halted by that dripping tone.   
"Good morning, Doctor Watson. Settled in, are we?"  
John's fist clenched the towel around his waist, his other hand running through his damp hair, suddenly aware of his nakedness.  
"Uh, yeah. Listen," he said, looking the British Government in the face, "I want to thank you for...well, you know." He shrugged. Mycroft lowered his chin.   
"You are most welcome."  
John's gaze skipped to Sherlock, who was looking suspiciously pink in the cheeks while he eyed the doctor's form. John found himself rubbing the back of his neck, flexing slightly as droplets of water ran down his body and soaked into the towel. "I should, uh, well...I will be back in a moment."  
Mycroft turned to his brother, who was determinedly looking away. "Perhaps you should get dressed as well, brother mine. We have a great deal to discuss this morning."   
Sherlock stood gracelessly, tugging his robe around himself and swiftly disappearing into his bedroom.  Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson's exchanged looks. Mycroft turned to pour himself a tea.  
Mrs. Hudson giggled. 

 

        Sherlock sat in his chair, silent and serious, tugging at the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. He was impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, fitted and pressed. John sat opposite him wearing his striped jumper (Sherlock's favorite) and his usual denim. They tried not to look at each other. They failed.  
Mrs. Hudson was feeding the baby in the kitchen, her happy silence filtering out into the atmosphere of the whole flat. Mycroft seated himself in the 'Client chair', somehow making it seem like the most important one in the room. He waited a moment to begin. "Doctor Watson, I am brought here this morning by news which I hope will offer a bit of _enlightenment_ to your  _situation._ "   
John tensed. "It's about Mary?"  
Mycroft tilted his head. "In a sense."  
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Go on then, Mycroft. No need to drag it out."  
"Early this morning, we apprehended an assassin. In your townhome."  
John's mouth went dry.  
Sherlock shifted again, his voice snapping. "You knew they were coming?"  
Mycroft looked disappointed in his brother. "Naturally. I am sure you did as well, but perhaps you have been distracted." The consonants of the last word seemed to pop as they were spoken. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.   
John sat forward. "Assassin...who? They were looking for Mary? They aren't...will they..."  
Mycroft shook his head. "I don't believe the people after her are interested in killing babies. But they may see it as a way to leverage information. As such, I am placing you all under more... _sufficient_  surveillance."   
John paled. "She's in danger?"  
  
     Sherlock grew dark. The tone in John's voice was fear and love.  _For_ _her?_ After all she had done? He dared to look at John. His eyes were turned away. Toward his daughter.   
' _She's in danger?'_ His daughter. Of course.  
He left out a silent, shaky breath.  
  
      Mycroft continued. "I would very strongly suggest that you not put yourself in any dangerous situations. The man we apprehended was no _amateur_. He is in our custody at this time, and we hope to extract the details of his hire over the next several days. Until then, I certainly hope you can control yourselves." He raised an eyebrow and both men.   
John's lips turned down and he swallowed hard. He had to chew over this new information. Sherlock was already a step ahead.   
"Magnussen...had already sold her out."  
Mycroft raised his chin. "Indeed. The Russian's have been after her for some time. The American's as well, along with a dozen other governments. Her time is up, so to speak. We believe she had known for a while. As for the Russian, she seems to have only became aware a few days before she decided to force an early birth. In any case, we must guard against the obvious. Hired guns aside, Mary herself may prove the most dangerous of them all."  
"Natural, she said. Insisted. Natural." John said, his voice robotic.  
Sherlock's lip was a thin line. "She wouldn't be capable of walking after an operation. It was an escape. But perhaps not a permanent one."  
John felt dizzy. He leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. Sherlock looked to Mycroft and they both stood. John could hear them talking as they walked out the door and down the steps.   
          In John's mind, everything fell into place. It stung like alcohol in an open wound. She left to _escape_. Didn't come to him. Didn't ask for help. Didn't even warn them someone would be coming for her. Didn't warn them not to go home. Didn't try to save them.  
Didn't try to save them.  
_Didn't try to save them._  
  
      A hand gently landed on his shoulder. The smell of baking and perfume. He had forgotten Mrs. Hudson was in the room. He sat up and turned to her, his eyes looking glassy with moisture, but clear and pained. He patted her hand as it squeezed softly.   
"She didn't deserve you, John."  
John bit the inside of his cheek, closing his eyes and letting the pain keep him in check. He opened his eyes as Sherlock entered the room.   
  
     He looked over the three of them, John sitting with his hand on Mrs. Hudson's. Their beloved landlady offering her honest comfort, holding the most innocent of them all carefully against her chest. They looked at him with eyes of grim understanding. He looked back with unfearing knowledge. They were all in it together.   
This is what it was to care.

 


	13. Unspoken

 

 

          Mycroft's departure set a dark mood on the residents of 221B.  
Mrs. Hudson surrendered the care of the baby back to John, who took her with trembling hands and a heavy heart. She offered to make them all some lunch, not bothering to add anything about "not your housekeeper" or "just this one time". She knew it was up to her to take care of these boys. And she took to her duties with love. As she left them, she laid her hand on Sherlock's arm before passing out the door. They listened to her shoes descend the the first level and click toward to her doorway.   
         
          Sherlock closed the door and looked to John. He was holding his child against his body, looking down at her sleeping face. He opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to it, his words cutting through Sherlock like a sword.   
  
"How could I choose this?"  
  
         Sherlock closed his mouth. He didn't trust himself to respond. Not to that question. It burned him from the inside to think that John was angry himself for everything that had happened. Dear, steady John.

John, who filled Sherlock's cup of tea before his own. John, who hunted for the best in people, despite being faced with nothing but the worst. John the contradiction. John, the best, most unassuming puzzle Sherlock had ever been faced with. He didn't trust himself to answer, so instead he went and collected the bassinet from where he had put it the day before and carried it to the spot that John had picked out. Then he went to John and, looking for permission from in his distant expression, gently lifted the sleeping child from his arms and laid her down in the little bed.   
When he looked back, John's head was in his hands. He walked over to him, taking his seat in the chair opposite.   
  
"You said I  _chose_ her. You said I  _liked_ this." He said, voice like broken glass. "But I didn't want this, Sherlock. I didn't want any of this."   
Sherlock's throat tightened. He had said that. But it hadn't been quite what he meant. 

"You didn't choose this John. You didn't know-"

"Because I didn't WANT to know." He said, his voice starting with fire and ending in ashes. "I just...you were gone and I...I was...oh  _christ."_

The blood slowly drained from Sherlock's face as he listened to his friends battle to admit what was in his mind and in his heart. Silently, he was willing John to go on, hoping he would give him more than a vague clue about what he had been holding back. If he could just speak, just say it all out loud, perhaps they could be done with all the doubt and the fear that they had both been living in for so long.   
John spoke again.

"I just wanted to do the right thing. I thought I was doing the right thing. But it's all wrong. Again."

Sherlock's felt his heart lurch as the listened. He he could offer little to comfort with.  
"By traditional standards, you made all the right choices."

A derisive laugh broke from John's throat, painful and bitter. "A lot of good that's done for me, yeah?"  
Not good enough. Facts were not helping. He reached out his nervous hand and carefully covered John's knee. John looked up, his red-rimmed eyes holding back a flood of emotions. There was a glint of mousture hanging from his lashes. Sherlock wanted to reach out and brush it away with his fingertips. To lean forward and wrap John in his arms and keep him safe for all time.   
His hand stayed where it was.

"You have always done the right thing, John. You are a far better man than I could ever be."  
  
             The air in the room shifted. John's expression altered and waviered, his gaze staying fixed on Sherlock. A second became a minute, then his grasp on time faded as he sat and allowed Sherlock to dive into the depths of his eyes and sift through the evidence there. He wondered if he would find it. The secret he kept locked away. The truth he had hardly dared to think even to himself.  

He felt the warmth of Sherlock's hand filter through his jeans and sink into his bones. The rest of his body grew cold, gooseflesh breaking out across his skin. He watched Sherlock's eyes turned dark, as though ink had been released into the swirling pools of blue and green. The distance between them was not far. He wondered what would happen if he leaned across that space and brushed his lips against the pale skin of his dearest friend on the earth.

If he would respond in kind, or push him away? Would he be angry, or have pity? John's eyes unconsciously flicked down to Sherlock's lips.   
'Damn it.'  
 

           Sherlock had been permitted to analyze the face and thoughts of the doctor in the past, but never had he been laid so bare as he was just then. The opportunity was a gift, and Sherlock coveted it like a prized present at christmas. His eyes roved over John's features, hunting out the meaning behind the words he had said and almost-said. A twitch of the lips. A deep crease of worry. Eyes of fear, of hope. A change in colour around the ears. Goosebumps.

Cold? No. Something else.

Then he watched as John's gaze fell to his own lips and broke away from him altogether. His mouth opened slightly, a breath of surprise filling his lungs. He'd looked at his lips. Could he-?

His hand tightened on John's knee, asking him to look back up. John obliged him, looking up with slightly reddened ears and a more guarded expression. That guard teetered under the darkening look on Sherlock's face, focused only on him. 

John's mouth went dry. His heart raced in his chest, the sound of blood pounding in his ears.   
_That look. It was..._ _devastating._  
 Was that his answer?

His hands moved of its own accord,  coming to rest on top of his friends. He began to speak without thought. "I led us to this. I should have seen it. I let her hurt you. I let her stay. God forgive me, I let her stay..."

Sherlock was gutted by John's words. He couldn't  believe that the man still blamed himself. After every betrayal, every desertion he'd endured, he still felt responsible. It must have shown on his face, because John's hand tightened around his own, the other boldly reaching up to graze against his cheek. John did see her hurt in his friends expression, and he felt like his heart had been split open at the sight. He looked...vulnerable. 

Sherlock Holmes. Human. 

The bell rang for the front door. They hardly had the will to move, hands connecting them in place. The distant voice of Mrs. Hudson. The familiar, masculine tone of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. It was with great regret that Sherlock looked away, his hand falling from John's knee as he stood to open the door. John continued to sit, dumbfounded for a moment or two, unable to process the moment he had just spent staring into the heart of the greatest detective in the world. 

 

 "Yeah, I saw a few blokes setting up in the empty window across the street. They gave me quite the hard stare when I came up. Courtesy of Mycroft, no doubt?" Greg was sitting at the table with Sherlock and John, fist closed around a mug of tea.   
"No doubt is a statement, not a question."   
John rolled his eyes.   
Greg didn't flinch, he just lifted the mug to his mouth and took a long sip. "Well, it's for the best, surely. Although I would hate to have him watching my every move."  
Sherlock smirked. "Would you?"  
"What?" Greg asked, his eyebrows meeting. "Wait. He's not? Is he?"  
John couldn't hold back his grin.   
"Aw, no. Really?"  
Sherlock reached for his own cup. "You've been on my brother's watch list for some time. I thought you must have known that from the start."   
Greg shrank a little. "Oh, for god's sake..."  
  
 Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room, tray filled with sandwiches. "Eat up, boys. I brought enough for all of you." She said, her voice a bit of lightness in the room.   
The baby made a sound from the bassinet. John started from his seat. Mrs. Hudson chirped in.

"Oh no, John. I've got her. Don't you worry." John sat down reluctantly, watching the kind old woman float across the room to hold his child. Greg snatched up a sandwich.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson! You are an absolute darling. Do these boys know how lucky they are?"   
She blushed under the praise of the D.I., waving her hand at him as to bat away his flattery.  Sherlock narrowed his gaze at him, the old fox. 

"Listen, Sherlock. I know you and John have a lot going on right now. But I was wondering how long before you would be able to get back at it?" He took a bite and chewed a moment. "I've had to do without you for months, now. Got a few things I'd love to have you look at."  
  
        Sherlock stood and walked to his desk, picking up the small stack of files that he had been working on. He carried them back to the table and slid them toward Greg, who knitted his brow and flipped open the first one. There, in neat writing, were Sherlock's notes on the case. The answer was spelled out, clear as day. He looked up at Sherlock. "Really? You solved them all?"  
 

Sherlock looked almost disappointed. "Really, Gabin? Such little faith in me?"

Greg shook his head. "Gabin? Are you fucking joking me right now?"  
John's laughter made Sherlock smile. Greg lowered his head and started to chuckle as well. "Fucking  _Gabin._ God."

       The men sat together for a while, Greg and John eating the bulk of the food while Sherlock picked at half a sandwich. They told Greg what they had learned that morning. As he had followed them into the mess this far, it seemed right to keep him in the know. Even if there was little he could do about it. He listened with astonishment, asking questions and looking for solutions that Sherlock tried not to smirk at. John went and took his child from Mrs. H, who needed to go to the shop. Greg leaned back in his chair. 

"This is bloody unbelievable." He said.   
Understatement.   
"What are you going to do?" He asked. 

John looked to Sherlock. "We will wait." He said. 

Greg looked confused. "What do you mean,  you'll wait? Wait for what?"

Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tabletop. "There are several ways that this may play out, some of which I have spoken about with my brother this morning and I certainly don't have time to explain to someone who-" he stopped, seeing the defensive face of the Detective Inspector. "-just needs to know the basics." He said, correcting his tone. "Besides, while John's child is still so young she must be kept safely at home, making her protection much easier to maintain." 

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I guess so. But what about you? Can't imagine you staying cooped up in here."

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, you can."   
John busied himself with his daughter. 

"Right. I suppose so." Said Greg, standing. "Right. Well, I should get back to it. Let me know if anything changes." He picked up the files and tucked them under his arm.   
           
      Sherlock stood as well and walked him to the door. They shook hands and parted, Sherlock closing them in once more to the comfortable nest that was their home. He looked at John, rocking his daughter and looking out into the street. He tensed. What would happen now? Should they talk about what had passed between them before the unexpected visit from Lestrade? A tightness in his chest threatened to send him racing into the street, chasing down Greg for a cigarette. He fought the urge, instead heading to the kitchen drawer and rummaging around for a new patch.   
John's voice followed him. 

"I was thinking about names. What do you think of Anna?"   
Sherlock frowned. Anna. Annabella.  _A.G.R.A._  
Too close.

"Not good. Too plain." He said. John turned around. 

"Really?"   
Sherlock nodded.   
"Hm. Alright. Any thoughts?"

Sherlock contemplated. Or at least, he pretended to. He already had a short list. "Elizabeth?"

John's face contorted. He didn't like it.  
"Like the Queen?" 

Sherlock tilted his head. "The queen is named Elizabeth?"

John shook his head. "You must be joking. Don't you remember? We were IN THE PALACE. We still have the ashtray. Never mind. How about Amy?"  
Another 'A'. Was he doing this on purpose?

"No. Let's steer away from A's. How about Emma?"  
John let out a short burst of laughter.

"Emma Watson? Really?"  
His friend looked at him with absolutely no understanding of what was so funny. He thought it sounded very good. John let his laughter die and tried to smooth over his mockery of Sherlocks efforts.   
"No, it's really a very lovely name. It's just...it already belongs to someone. It would seem strange to me. You know?"   
Sherlock nodded, looking something like an upset child, dark curls hanging over his eyes. John sighed.  
"Got anymore?" He asked. Sherlock shrugged. 

"One." he said.   
John raised his eyebrows. "Let's have it, then."

Sherlock put his hands into his pockets. "Elanor."  
  
     John's face brightened. He looked down at this daughter. "Elanor. What do you think, love? You like that one?" He looked up at Sherlock. "It's brilliant."  
Sherlocks shy smile lit the whole room. John leaned down and kissed the tiny forehead of his daughter. Elanor. It was perfect. His heart was too full. It was amazing that he could sit a scorched field of misery one moment, and be gifted with such pure happiness the next. _They_ were gifts to him; Sherlock and Elanor. Perfection.   
 

    He carried his daughter across the room and laid her down to sleep again. She slept most of the day now, her tiny body working hard to grow. He checked her over, both the doctor and father in him wanting to be sure that she was growing already and getting stronger with the passing days. He picked up the stethoscope that he had hung on the side of the little cradle and put the earpieces in, listening carefully to her heart and counting the beats as he looked at his watch. He heard Sherlock move back to his desk and open his laptop, the sound of keys clicking at astonishing speed bringing him an odd sort of comfort.  
They wouldn't talk about it. Not yet. Maybe they never would, he thought. At least they had been given that moment. He would be grateful for that. 

John put down the stethoscope and went to the remaining pile of bags to start unpacking once more.  

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone keen, all of Sherlock's name choices are after famous Heroines in Jane Austen novels.


	14. Shameless Wishes

 

 

         Sherlock lay awake in his bed as the clock passed midnight, staring at the ceiling of his room through the darkness. His left hand cradled the back of his head, while his right rested on the cheek John had touched the day before. He played that moment in his head over and over, closing his eyes as he tried to read the face that drifted in his memory. There was hope in that face. Hope.   
For what? For him? For them? 

     Sherlock let out a long sigh. Did he dare to imagine that it spoke of feelings deeper than he allowed himself to believe? Could John " _not gay"_ Watson actually harbor feelings for a man as ridiculous and dangerous as he was?   
His fingers ran down the line of his own throat and rested on his chest. He could feel the beat of his heart through the thin cage of his ribs, the powerful muscle that was blamed for every case of love and that ever existed. There it was, just pumping blood through his veins and arteries as it always had; carrying Oxygen and CO2. No different from before he and John met. But it had never felt the same since that moment.   
  
      He closed is eyes and allowed his mind to wander for a moment, trespassing into that dangerous territory of fantasy and hopefulness. He saw John, his almost desperate look as his hand curved tenderly around Sherlock's own. He watched John's eyes dip down to his lips. An accidental confession. He imagined what could have happened, what  _should_ have happened, had Lestrade not taken that moment to arrive.   
He would have held John's gaze a little longer. He would have let himself reach for John, guiding him forward, gently bringing him to where he clearly wanted to go. Closer, until he could feel John's breath on his lips and his hand sliding up into Sherlock's hair. John would be unsure, but naturally confident. Their first kiss would be tentative, a mere brush of lips and an appraisal.   
      Sherlock hummed to himself at the thought. Pleasant. Warm. His heart was beating more quickly in his chest, the blood moving through him with more heat.   
John would have kissed him again. He would kiss him the way Sherlock long thought he would. Strong and honest, lips falling into rhythm with his as hands circled around his back. He could almost feel it, the feather-light touch of John's tongue on his lips, asking. Sherlock would oblige. He would always oblige John. 

         Sherlock's hand had begun to wander, dragging itself down his body to where that warmth had started to settle, wantonly low in his abdomen. He thought of John pulling him closer, their kiss deepening, the little moans John would make under the prowess of his lips. The way his skin would taste as he teased his tongue along the column of John's neck; stubble and softness and the lingering flavor of salt. Human. His.  
Finally, his.   
Sherlock's hand was teasing the waistband of his pajamas, his mind lingering in the light version of his fantasy, wanting more. He slid his fingertips under the band and hesitated.   
Should he, really?  
      It had been a very, very long time since he had allowed himself to indulge in _this_ sort of base need. He bit the inside of his lip, pressing down harder and harder until it started to taste of metal. The need was great. Immediate. It was the first time since his early days with John that he allowed himself to feel the depth of his longing. It hadn't done much good for Sherlock that John had decided to parade around, dripping wet in nothing more than a towel. He groaned; desire and restraint. His hand travelled a little further, grazing against the hot skin that begged his attention. His eyes squeezed shut. He felt heavy with want. He told himself to stop what he chastised himself for as nothing more than a stupid, lustful action. The needs of the undisciplined did not impose themselves on him. But at that moment he wanted, more than he cared to admit, to continue, unashamed. He was trapped in a war between his mind and his body, and for the first time in years, his body was winning.   
         
       The sound of Elanor's cries broke his struggle. The fantasy ended with reality's more immediate needs. Sherlock sat up, taking deep breaths and rubbing his hands through his hair. He could hear John hurrying to the kitchen. The sound of water and then the kettle. Sherlock relaxed and listened. His footfalls were heavy against the floor, but still moving quickly. He was tired, but ever vigilant.   
      He swung his legs off the bed and stretched. There was no use is staying hidden in his room. Sleep was far away and his body was being far too cruel and rebellious. Standing, he glanced at himself in the mirror. His pajamas looked suspiciously full in the crotch. He looked down at himself, pulling open the top of his pants and peering into the darkness therein. Scowling at his body, he adjusted himself appropriately to go out of the bedroom. His blue robe lay like a silky puddle on the floor of his room, so he picked it up and wrapped it around himself, tying it securely. He checked the mirror again. All looked normal, and he nodded to the reflection that stared out at him before opening the door.   
  
       John was pacing around the kitchen, cradling little baby Ella. Her voice rose in quick, gasping cries as her father's exhausted face tried to reassure her that all would be well. He looked up as his flatmate entered the room, all height and grace and silent conclusions. Sherlock passed John and went strait to the counter, making up another bottle with surprising ease. When he turned, their eyes met for a moment. Sherlock's flitted away first, one hand offering up the bottle. He was cursing himself internally.

'THAT is the danger of indulgence. It leaks out into the real world.'

He felt a fool for doing absolutely nothing.   
       

     John was curious about the appearance of the strange shyness that passed over his normally overconfident genius, but his mind was struggling to handle the trials of there and now. Elanor was still crying. John "Shhh"ed and said her name in soothing tones. He offered the bottle and moved her gently. Sherlock paced the living room as John tried to carefully burp her tiny body, resulting in more crying. The clock ticked away and Sherlock's paces thumping dully against the wood floor, John's voice pleading softly. Still, she cried.   
        He laid her down and checked her nappy. Clean and dry. He tried lifting her feet and attempted massaging her tummy. He lifted her up and held her close. He offered the bottle again. She seemed to want nothing, her cries becoming more shrill with the minutes. John started to feel frazzled, his nerves getting the better of him and his fear for her health growing. A sense of panic started in his spine, slowly moving up one vertebrae at a time, building in a most unsettling manner. He took deep breaths, rocking carefully, fearfully, lovingly, worrying that every moment he was doing everything absolutely wrong.   
         
        The first note of Sherlock's violin set him spinning around in his place. Elanor's cries suddenly fell as the high, sweet first notes of Vivaldi's 'Winter' leaped from the strings and into the air. Her little eyes opened, blinking up at the startled face of her father. He gazed down at her, seeing her aware of her surroundings and of him for the first time since she woke. The listened in silence as the music filled the dimly lit flat, captivating and clear.

       She fussed as the first movement drew to a close, threatening to let out a cry, but the second movement of the piece, softer than the first, caught the attention of her ears again and she settled. John smiled from ear to ear, looking up to see his friend at work.  
       It was nothing short of enchanting to watch him play. His long fingers flew over the instrument with deft knowledge, pulling sweet, complex music from strings and bow with the skill of a master. John watched the expression on his face, eyes closed and mouth tight, his features set in serious concentration, his body swaying a dipping lightly with the highs and lows of the piece. All other sounds vanished. All worries were chased away. The music was so beautiful, so wildly perfect, that there was no room in his mind to think of the time or his own fatigue. There was just them, suspended in this one moment.   
       

       As the last note of the song ended, dancing off the window panes and leaving the room vibrating, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John.   
"That was...brilliant."  
Sherlock let a half-grin lift his face, glancing at Ella who continued to stare up silently. John looked down and offered the bottle again, and she took it this time, drinking more heartily than ever before. Sherlock met John's eyes and nodded his head, feeling very pleased with himself. He placed the instrument back in it's case, loosening his bowstrings and allocating this new bit of information away into the room marked especially for Elanor.

      Music. Important. He would have to test and see which composer she would respond best to. He wondered if she would eventually be more inclined to prefer the same as he did, or if she would end up leaning in the musical direction of her father. He smiled at himself. John had terrible taste in music.  
It had felt good to play. And while it had not quite 'scratched the itch' that had been hot on his skin earlier in the night, the satisfaction of the moment was highly gratifying.

 

 

 


	15. Pictures

 

 

      For the nineteeth morning in a month, John woke up on the couch on baker street. Near him slept Ella, wrapped up in the purple blanket Mrs. Hudson had gifted her a few days before. He sat up, feeling his joints groan at him as his muscles pulled his body upright.  
       The nights were getting better, now. John was finding it easy to understand what his daughter needed when she fussed and cried. It gave him confidence. He started to see hints of her personality in her behavior, and found himself able soothe her more easily after the first weeks of difficult adjustments.

He constantly worried after her, though.  It didnt help that he was waiting on the sword dangling over their heads. It had him needing to keep her within reach for the first two weeks, almost without exception. After that Sherlock had convinced him that she would sleep better upstairs, which John suspected meant that he was itching to take out his chemistry equipment again. He did, however, decide he was comfortable with the idea for naps.

But not wholly comfortable.

He found himself hanging about in the living room while she slept, baby monitor in hand and unable to be still. He would pace until Sherlock ordered him to sit down. Often while staring into a mircoscope. John would try to smother his smile, amused that he was the one driving Sherlock mad for being restless.  
  
On this morning, as he drowsily entered the waking world, he noticed the flat felt particularly empty. 

        He got up and drifted into the kitchen, flipping on the kettle for a morning tea. It was very quiet, and he listened for the sounds of movement as he stretched his arms up over his head. Nothing. Not a shuffle or a yawn or a snore. Curious, he went to the hall and looked down to Sherlock's bedroom. The door was open. The bathroom door was open. No sounds. He walked down and peeked into his flatmates room.   
     

 It looked like rest in his space; the morning light pouring in through his window, dust particles dancing in the sunbeam. He certainly was not in. John looked around. It was tidier than the rest of the flat, a personal habit he had noticed about Sherlock after he had moved in. The bed was unmade, but welcoming. Dressing table kept tidy. A few scientific posters and framed pictures from books on the walls. John stepped inside. It smelled like Sherlock's hair product and cologne and something else, sleepy and personal. Taking a few steps toward the bed, he slid his hand over the sheets and into the duvet tossed back from the pillows. Cold. Sherlock had been up and out for some time. John frowned. It was the only time since that first night back that Sherlock had left the flat, and he was surprised and a little hurt not to have been informed.  
  
       They had been so cautious thus far, taking in a few friends as visitors, but no cases; no strangers. Their flat had been under Mycroft's monitoring. Yet despite his assurance that he would contact them soon, they had yet to host another visit from the both literal and figurative 'big brother'. Days wound into nights and nights bled into days, each of them busy enough to keep from simply pacing the floor or tearing up curtains.

Sherlock helped with Elanor and played the violin and worked on little cases that Lestrade brought by every few days. They had come to expect the Detective Inspector's visits, catching up on the latest news from NSY. Sherlock found he enjoyed Greg's companionship more and more over the span of the visits. He always had a story to tell that would make John laugh and break the tension of the days spent inside.

 For his part, John cared for his daughter with the dutiful nature that Sherlock had expected from him. When she slept (which was often, but always brief) he caught up on some reading and took up writing again for the first time in years. He also napped when he could, more often on the couch than anywhere else. He would wake with a blanket draped over him and his flatmate ignoring him with a strange fondness. John found it difficult to identify how it were possible to be both ignored and doted upon.

    He hadn't worked up the courage to speak of their little understanding, but signs of affection stained everything he did. Often John would hang over his flatmate while he worked on papers, his hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder while he read over a case or looked at a crime scene photo. He watched with interest when Sherlock studied Elanor. He looked like he was trying to deduce everything about her, understand every twitch and blink.

He took up reading to her as well, insisting that it was important to her development from the start. John teased him over it, and Sherlock would defend his actions by calling it his attempt to give her  'the advantages of superior thinking' as early as possible. John saw through his haughty comments, noticing him fluster as though he had been caught out, like his secret had been discovered. The fact was, it was easy to see how much Sherlock enjoyed reading to her. He enjoyed the warm weight of her tiny body in his arms, the way she slipped into slumber to the sound of the words. He read to her nearly every day.  And John secretly enjoyed every reading, even when it was a dull manuscript or the biography of a famous composer. It pleased him to think that Elanor was committing his voice to memory. He would sit back and pretend to read on his own, all the while listening to Sherlock's voice mingling with the sounds that drifted in from the street below.

 It had been rather nice, this odd arrangement, if a bit stifling to be trapped indoors for so long. It was very domestic.  
Yet it was entirely unconventional.  
John was growing accustomed to the comfort of their home life. But now he was alone. It was disconcerting to find himself alone.    
A repeat problem from John H. Watson.  
       
He walked to the bedroom window and looked down into the alley below. Not much to see. A few bins out for collection. A few people scuttling about below. He turned away, his hand passing over the fine blue silk of Sherlock's robe, hanging on the back of his chair. His eyes wandered down to the dressing table. Interesting assortment of things, there. Scissors. Scalpel. A grooming kit for travel. A knife, unsheathed and gleaming in the light. A few more books, marked with bits of paper. A notebook and pen.  
His eyes stopped. There was a photo sticking out of the notebook. John looked at the corner that protruded out of the pages, recognizing the christmas lights he had put up years ago. He reached for it, glancing up at the doorway to make sure he wasn't being observed. Sherlock had the ability to sneak up on him as silently as a ghost. The hall remained empty, so he carefully opened the page of the notebook and lifted out the photo.   
  
      A dimly lit living room with little white lights set up. A tiny christmas tree in the background. And there was himself, sitting in front of the fireplace and smiling. 

He remembered that moment.

     Mrs. Hudson had been up with the new digital camera she had bought that year. Sherlock had been playing the violin, staring out the window as he often did. John was smiling at Sherlock; practically swooning judging by the look on his face. He looked closer at the photo. It was well worn, the edges bent and the image scratched. It was the only personal picture that he had ever seen in Sherlock's possession, and it was of John wearing a silly woolen jumper and gazing at him. Mrs. Hudson must have snapped it and given the copy to Sherlock. And Sherlock had kept it. Kept it for all this time, tucked away in this notebook.   
       John swallowed, staring down at the picture of himself. The kettle flicked off and he put the photo back in the notebook and slipped out of the bedroom. There was something deeply sentimental about finding that photograph. Sherlock never kept photos. Not once had John ever seen a polaroid, except those of dead bodies.  
John had taken pictures of Sherlock over the years. He used one or two of the more shadowy ones in his blog, but mostly he kept the few images he had managed to capture to himself, locked up in the box where he kept his ammunition. He had rarely allowed himself the indulgence of looking at them after Sherlock's "death". It had become too painful.   
  
      Pouring himself a mug of tea, his heart clenched at the memory of the first time he had gone through them after that awful day at Bart's. He'd taken them out slowly, each one tearing him open more than the one before. He had wept like a child, stifling his sobs in his sleeve and biting through wool as the pain of all he had lost came to full realization, photo's clutched in his hands.  
It still hurt to think about, even with Sherlock back. Even with himself back at 221B. It still hurt.  
  
     He had locked them up with his handgun and bullets and one of Sherlock's scarves. On occasion he would open the box, running his fingers over the cold metal of the gun, fingering the bullets one by one, loading the cartridge and unloading it, pictures of his best friend laid out on the floor and his heart bleeding out of his chest.  
There was a photo from Baskerville. That terrible Christmas party at the Met that they had gone to. Sherlock at a crime scene, taken by an adoring fan that John had convinced to send him a copy. His profile in that great coat he always wore, passing down the street. That time he managed to take a quick picture of Sherlock smiling at home. That was his favorite. He wasn't looking at the camera, and he had complained afterward. It hadn't mattered. He was smiling, and it was beautiful.  
    There were several dark nights when he was so close. He would hold the pistol to his mouth, liquor and agony and loneliness in his blood. What was the point of living? The one person who brought him back to life was dead. And so John was dead, too. Dead and walking. Why not just join the ranks of the ghosts in his life?  
It would be so easy.  
Quick.  
No more pain.   
But something always stopped him. A hesitation that he hated. It made him feel weak; too afraid to do what he desired. It was a trait that he had always loathed. So the pictures went away, and eventually they stopped coming out at all. A year later he met Mary.   
Mary.   
  
       John shook his head, taking his mug and walking to the living room windows. The street was busy today. The sun shining. It was a fine London day. He sipped his tea and stared at nothing, wishing he could go outside. He needed a walk and some fresh air. The lack of proper rest and the days of being stuck inside were making him feel a bit cagey. And with Sherlock's mysterious outing, he was ready to climb the walls. A whimper escaped from the bassinet across the room. He put down his mug and went to tend to his child, changes and feedings on the schedule in his mind.   
  
Morning turned to afternoon. Afternoon rapidly moved toward evening.  
  
      Mrs. Hudson came up for a tea. They sat together at the table while she held Elanor and John sent out another round of texts to Sherlock and Lestrade. The former offered no reply. The latter had not heard from him all day. John was getting worried. And angry. His thoughts became a torrent of un-vented frustration. What could bring him out for so long? Why didn't he answer John's texts? Was he in some sort of trouble? Where could he have gone? How dare Sherlock steal off without telling him. He was likely doing something stupid, putting himself in danger.  
Without him.  
That burned John, being left behind. Familiar anger boiled in his belly, making him clench his fist repeatedly. He stood and began pacing the room.

"I can't believe that idiot." He growled "Who the hell does he think he is, racing off without telling me?"  
  
Mrs. Hudson looked up at him with pity.  
"Oh, John. You know Sherlock. He does things his own way, and I'm sure it's for the very good reasons."  
  
John checked himself. He was ready to punch a hole in the wall. Cabin fever and worry.   
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I know he does. But that's no excuse to disappearing without a word. Does he know how insufferable he is? Does he even think about how worried I am?"  
  
The dear landlady smirked in spite of herself. John was sounding more and more like a concerned housewife with a slight rage issue.  
"Why don't you go look for him, then?" She asked.  
  
John spun around to her, his eyebrows high on his face.  
"I can't do that. I can't take Elanor out of the flat yet. It's the only place she's safe. I can't. I couldn't."  
  
"You could. I would watch after her. I will stay up here, doors locked. I have no trouble with her. A little crying is nothing to me. Besides, you are the only one who know's what sort of rubbish he gets into."  
  
John hesitated, his eyes wandering towards the window. The sun was setting. Still no word. He felt sure that something was wrong, and it was making him anxious being trapped when Sherlock might be in need.   
"Mycroft's men are still watching the flat. You would be safe here with her..." he said, considering the offer.   
  
Mrs. Hudson stood with Ella in her arms and approached John.   
"We will be alright here, dear. But you won't be. So give your girl a kiss and get on with it."  
  
John let an unsure smile pull at his lips, his eyes still dark with worry.  
"Alright." He said. He leaned down and placed a kiss on Elanor's fuzzy little head, then one on Mrs. Hudson's cheek.   
"Clean nappies in the bag by the cradle. Formula on the counter. If she won't take a bottle right away, there's a recording of Sherlock's violin. That seems to calm her do-"  
  
"I know, I know. Get on, then."

      John raced upstairs and opened the box that held his pistol. He checked the cartridge. Loaded. Snapping it into place, he stuffed the gun into his belt and covered it with his jumper. His footfalls were fast on the stairs as he came back down and grabbed his jacket.

"Thank you." He said, and disappeared out the door. 

 

 

 

 


	16. Addicts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of the day! To make up for the longer than usual break through last week. Enjoy!

 

        The evening air cooled rapidly around him as John hurried down the street. His heart was thrumming in his chest, thrilled to be out and active yet terrified that he had left his daughter behind. The night was drawing it's way out of the shadows of the city, sundown finally complete and the bluish light of evening taking over. He pulled out his mobile and called Sherlock again. Three rings, no answer. With a growl of frustration, he hung up and dialed the next person on his list.   
  
"Greg, here."  
  
"Greg! It's John. Where are you?"  
  
"John? I'm at work, mate. Where are you? I can hear traffic. You get a hold of Sher-"  
  
"No, I haven't." Said John, cutting off his friend. "I'm out looking for him, now."  
  
Greg's voice sounded tense. "You left the flat? Does Mycroft know about all this?"  
  
"Sod Myc, for god's sake. I have to find Sherlock. Something's not right."  
  
"Where are you headed?" asked the D.I.  
  
"Trying to sort that out, now. Don't have much to go on, here."  
  
There was a pause on the line. John could practically hear the Detective Inspector's mind turning.  
"If anyone had information for him...What about that junkie he was hanging around with? You know, the skinny fellow who drugged you all?"  
  
"Billy." He breathed. "Right. I think I know where to find him."  
  
"John, should you be doing this alone? I don't think it's a good idea."  
  
John couldn't help but smile at the concern in Greg's voice, but he couldn't wait.  
"I will check the den. Then the townhouse. Then Leinster Gardens. I'll text you the addresses."  
  
"Alright. Be careful."  
  
John ended to call and hailed a cab with rather shocking success. He was in the taxi and texting the promised addresses when it occurred to him that he really should call Sherlock's Brother. He hesitated before punching in the number. The phone was answered before it even allowed to ring.   
"Mycroft. This is John. I think we have a problem."

       The abandoned warehouse looked exactly the same as it had the last time John was there. In the twilight, however, it took on a spooky atmosphere, it's windows unlit expect for a few flickering illuminations from lighters on the second floor. He steeled himself against whatever laid in wait behind the broken doors, and headed inside.   
         There was no one on duty this time, the entranceway abandoned by it's post man. He started quietly up the stairs, not looking to cause any trouble. The old stairway creaked under his shoes, making him wince as his entrance was announced before him. At the top of the stairs, he looked around. There were very few people about. Two hunched figures sat near the far wall, the empty lighter of one desperately attempting to heat the spoon of the other. It was a sad scene to witness, so he turned away in search of someone who could offer assistance. There was a man hunched against the wall. Not Billy. John gritted his teeth and moved on to the next floor.   
      On the uppermost level of the old building, darkness had swallowed all sight. John started looking anyhow, his soldierly confidence giving him a sort of presence in the eerie space. He decided to try his luck.   
"Billy?" He said.   
There was no answer. He tried a little louder.   
"Billy!"  
A groan from the far corner. John jogged through the garbage and debris to find a thin man lying out on the floor. Bingo.  
He squatted down next to the prostrate form and shook his shoulder.  
"Billy. It's John. Remember...from Christmas?"  
Billy's pale face turned toward him. It was difficult to make out his expression in the darkness, but John caught the flash of teeth.

'Happy, then.'   
  
"Johhhn. Yeeaah. Johhhnny boy, innit?"  
John sighed.   
"Youuu come on in'er and...you rescue allll the li'll people, yeah?"  
Billy broke into what could only be described as drowsy giggles. John felt a pang of pity for the man. He knew Billy was brilliant. Yet here he was, a slave to addiction. Not unlike someone else he knew. He felt his lips pull downward as he patted the man's shoulder to try and get him to focus.   
  
"Billy, listen here a moment, alright? I need you to tell me if you have seen Sherlock."  
The man stilled, his head lolling to the side. John reached over and slapped his cheek gently. "Billy!"  
  
"Wut? Yeah. Shezza? Sheeezzaa."  
  
"Right, yes. Have you seen him? Or talked to him? I need to know, Billy. I need to know NOW."  
  
Billy started shaking his head, scratching at his chin. "No, no no no. I ain't seen Shezzza since weeks, now yeah? Weeeeks, mate."   
John sat back on his haunches, sighing heavily. Dead end, here. In more ways than one. He reached out and grabbed Billy's wrist, checking his pulse.   
It was slow, but nothing abnormal for a man in a stupor of heroin.   
"You feel alright, Billy? You need me to...call anyone?"  
Billy shook his head, his hands fumbling down to his pockets.   
  
No, no no. I's fiiine. Be...besides. I gotta mobile. I gotta-huh..."  
John furrowed his brow. "Your phone is missing?"  
  
"It'ssss gone. Yeah. I thought...but it's been gone sinnnccce...oh, yah. Mornin' I loss it. stolen, I fink. Fink so...ha, the junkie gettin robbed. Funny stuff, innit?"  
He started to cackle, and John stood. 

"If it's been stolen, then maybe..."   
He reached into his pocket and called Lestrade.   
  
"Den's a bust. But Billy's mobile is missing."  
  
"...You think someone drew Sherlock out using Billy's number?"

"Clever, yeah?  
  
"I'll meet you at the townhouse. One block up."   
  
John agreed, then added "Send someone round to pick up Billy. He's on the top floor."  
  
"Right. Done."  
  
He turned away from the rapidly-dosing man on the warehouse floor and hurried downstairs to reclaim his cab. If someone knew to use Billy, that someone would have to know Sherlock very intimately. He felt his heart constrict, his stomach twisting, a thread of dread. This was not what he wanted to find.   
He hopped into the cab, glad he had asked it to wait. Barking out the address, the cabbie started down the street in the darkness. He thought of Elanor, wondering if she was alright. If Mrs. Hudson was faring well with her. She didn't have her phone with her. He wanted to call and check in, but she would be upstairs. He would have to wait.   
  
      

        When he arrived on his former street, he was prickling all over with anxiety. He pulled out a few notes and paid his fare, the slipped out of the car. Lestrade was waiting, leaning against the shadowy wall of another home and smoking a cigarette. John wanted to smile at the sight. The D.I. looked like a character out of a comic book. But time was pressing and so was his heart against his chest. Greg flicked the still-burning butt onto the sidewalk.   
"Right. So what's the plan here, John?"  
  
John looked down the street toward the dark townhouse. He shrugged slightly, feeling his inadequacy for this part of the job was painfully obvious.  
"I guess...You go round front and knock at the door. Maybe announce as police. If anyone is inside, it might start them trying to get out. I'll go round back and get in through the windows. There was one with a finicky lock. From there...I guess we just play it out."  
  
Greg didn't look too convinced, his forehead a mess of lines as he looked over John. But he smoothed them shortly and set his jaw.   
"Alright. If that's what we've got."  
  
       They split up and headed in their opposite ways. Greg strolled confidently down the street, playing his part well from the first moment. John moved furtively down the alley, another shade of darkness in the night. He crept up on the back windows of the house. Everything was dark inside. Everything looked abandoned. He hunched against the wall, hearing the heavy knock of Lestrade against the front door.   
_"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Anyone inside come out at once."_  
Silence. John slinked toward the bad window and fidgeted with the lock. It made a small, metallic sound as it sprung open. Pushing it silently, he peered over the sill. There was something. A sound. Shuffling. Scraping?   
          He needed to take a few deep breaths before he could make his next move. Climbing through the window left him highly exposed. And doubtlessly, something was waiting inside. He heard the pound of Lestrade's fist and he moved quickly, hoping the distraction would buy him some time. He slid through the open window and stepped soundlessly onto the still-clean floor of the kitchen. He froze. There was that sound again. Muffled. Scraping.   
He edged his way across the kitchen, pressing himself against the wall and listening again. Greg knocked at the door again and John nearly jumped at the sudden sound this time. The air was tense. He carefully looked around the corner into the living room.   
There was someone there! John produced the gun from his belt, holding it ready before him.   
'Alright, John.' he thought, 'This is your shot.'  
  
     He stepped out into the doorway, pistol pointed at the figure in the chair. "Don't. Move." He said, his words like ice. The figure in the chair went still, then began shifting and struggling again, slowly.  
John felt the dawn of realization break over him. He looked around the room. Empty. His heart started pounding wildly. He stepped toward the chair and his nose caught the scent of something familiar.   
"Sherlock?"   
The figure nodded, the muffed sound of his voice suddenly sounded clear to John.   
"Sherlock! Christ!"  
John quickly moved over to his friend, tied up in the darkness to one of his kitchen chairs. John couldn't make out his face, but when he removed the gag from Sherlocks mouth, his voice betrayed his expression.   
"Joohnn? Jonn! Ellanorr!"  
    Cold flowed through every vein in John's body, the sensation of dead fear pumping in his blood. He slid his hands over his friends, searching to set him free. But fumbling in the darkness was no match for a few good zap straps. He reached into his pocket, grabbing for the blasted knife that cut him open a couple weeks earlier. Flicking it open, the blade glinted blue in the dark. He cut loose the ties and Sherlock was released, but wobbly and awkward. John grabbed at his arm as the DI knocked at the door again.   
He looked hard at Sherlock's face, but couldn't make out much. He wasn't right, though. He sounded like...  
"Sherlock...are you high?"  
His friend folded forward into John's space, forcing him to clutch him in a mockery of a hug and hold him upright. "Sherlock?"  
Sherlock straitened himself as best he could, swaying slightly from side to side.   
"Noot...not intentional...ly. I din't think enough, John...Johnnn..."  
  
"Let's get out of here."   
  
     They moved as quickly as they could to the door, opening it up to reveal Greg, startled at the sight of the two of them. He narrowed his gaze.  
"Sherlock? Christ, what've you done?"  
John looked over at his friends face. It was bruised around the eye and cheek. Blood had trickled from his hairline and dried around his ear.

"Blow to the head, it looks like." He said. "I think he was drugged as well."  
Greg grabbed his arm, helping Sherlock down the stairs and onto the walk.  
  
"You two stay put. I've got a car around the corner." He took off running up the street. He moved fast when he wanted to.   
  
Sherlock was clutching John's shoulders. "Elllanorr...Ella," He said, the words slurred and slow.   
  
"What about Elanor, Sherlock? Who did this to you?"  
  
"Elanor. Anna... Sheees gunna take her. Sheees...sheee..."  
      He was slumping forward. John couldn't hold him up much longer. Greg's car came down toward them and he leaped out onto the sidewalk, grabbing Sherlock. The two of them loaded him into the back of the car and jumped inside, John in the back seat holding Sherlock's head on his lap.  
Greg looked over at him. "What do we do here, John?"   
John reached down and placed his fingers against Sherlock's neck, counting the beats. Slow. About the same as Billy's had been.   
What the hell was going on?   
"Baker Street. Quickly."

 

 


	17. A.G.R.A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more violence in this chapter, as well as coarse language. Fair warning, lovelies.

 

 

        The city was a blur outside the windows of the Detective Inspector's car, weaving through the streets of London towards 221B. Lestrade proved a master behind the wheel, and John was impressed with how rapidly the kilometers between them and Elanor became fewer and fewer. John partly listened as he spoke rapidly into his handheld radio. The words attempted kidnapping, possibly armed, missing woman bounced around in his ears amid the roar of the engine, the honking of horns and the terrible storm inside John's mind. He just needed to stay calm.  
  
      Sherlocks head was still in John's lap, looking up with restrained but clear frustration, battling with the drugs. John's hands brushed absently through his soft hair, carefully checking the place where he had been hit. Sherlock winced and smiled as John's fingers travelled over the swollen skin above his right ear. He looked down at his friends face.  His eyes were closing slowly, eyelashes fluttering for a while before opening again. John frowned, his anger overtaken by apprehension.   
  
"Sherlock? Sherlock!"  
  
He opened his eyes again and stared into John's, who could see the struggle in them. He looked strangely innocent this way, his usual veil pushed aside by the drugs that coursed through his system. John had seen him like this before. Brilliantly useless and left exposed by that which was only supposed to quiet the noise in his mind.  
  
"John...I'm sorry..."  
  
John shook his head, letting his hands run through Sherlocks soft curls again and again.  
  
"No, don't bother with that. Just...just tell me. Who did this to you?"  
  
Sherlock frowned lethargically, turning his head slightly.   
"Maary...I don't think she likes me, John. "  
  
John's hand froze in his friends hair. She was here in London, still. Or, perhaps, again.  And she wanted something from them. It was pretty clear what that would be.  
  
"Elanor?" he said, making Sherlock frown further.   
  
"Maaaary. Not...Elllanor." Then he paused. "Oh."  
  
John's head dropped. Drugging Sherlock was terribly cruel. He would be of little use this way, even if he was high-functioning as an addict. He wondered how long it had been since he had been dosed. If it were this morning, perhaps he would start to come around. He leaned forward and asked Greg,  
  
"Do you know how long it takes for-"  
  
"About eight hours." He replied, already thinking the same thing himself. "We're almost there. Just hold on."  
  
         John sat back and wrapped his arm over Sherlock's chest, holding him tightly. Greg pulled onto Baker street at an alarming speed, the vehicle fishtailing and swerving violently. Sherlock groaned, his head turning to John's stomach and pressing against the fabric of his shirt. Greg slowed as they approached the flat, stopping outside speedys and jumping out. He opened the door for John and together they lifted Sherlock off the seat. John looked around. The street was quiet. John gave Greg a look that suggested there was no waiting. He was going in.  
His heart told him something was wrong, thumping hard and sending adrenaline coursing through his blood. They hurried toward the door together, John holding his friend around the waist to keep him moving forward. Greg swept his gaze over the street, focusing on the building across. John spared it a glance as well. It was still being renovated, years after the explosion that had sent John racing home from Sarah's. He looked up at the high, dark windows, hoping to see signs of the men who had been watching the flat. There was nothing. Either Mycroft had pulled them out, or they simply weren't there anymore. He shivered and turned back and fit the key into the lock, opening the door and leading Sherlock into the dark hall. Greg followed behind, the heavy door latching shut behind them.   
         
       The flat was silent. John nodded to Greg, who helped move Sherlock to sit at the bottom of the stair. They leaned him against the handrail, his body slumping against it and his head lolling forward. John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair one more time, avoiding the tender place crusted with blood. He moved close to him, the smell of his hair and his aftershave, his blood and his sweat making John's heart ache.   
  
"We have to leave you here. Just stay put, alright? Please, Okay?"  
  
 He saw a slight nod in response.  
Without thinking, he leaned forward and placed a kiss on his friends head, letting the curls brush against his cheeks. Then he stood and motioned his head toward the flat. Greg didn't bother to look surprised at the affectionate moment, he simply lowered his chin and let John take the lead. They mounted the stairs silently, each pulling out the pistols they kept hidden on their person.  John stopped outside the door. It was unlocked. His heart started to patter so quickly he worried about keeping his grip, sweat sliding on his palm. He listened. Elanor was crying. He placed his hand on the knob, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. 

Light flooded the stairway, leaving John blinking a moment as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. He took a step in, turning toward the sound of his daughter, and froze. There she was, in the arms of her missing mother, Mary.   
"Hello, John." She said, her voice cool and detached. "I didn't expect you'd be home so soon."  
  
"....Mary. What are you doi-"  
  
Mary lifted her gun at him, and he realized stupidly that his own pistol was hanging impotently at his side.   
Elanor wailed, the unfamiliar scent and the fearful energy of the woman holding her making her respond with shuddering wails. John winced at the sound, desperate to get his daughter back into his arms. He looked around the room.   
  
"Mary...where is Mrs. Hudson?"  
  
She shh'ed the little baby, her eyes meeting John's.   
John swallowed thickly, his tongue felt leaden in his mouth. Mary looked so differently. Nothing like the woman he had chosen to wed months before. Her face was stone; an impassible shield. He thought of Sherlock. This must be how he saw her the moment before he was shot.  
  
"Mary, please."  
   
He took a step forward and she cocked her head to the side. "Don't push me, John. I will shoot you. You know I will."  
  
John stopped, his body aching to hold his daughter. He heard a whimper and glanced to the kitchen. There was Mrs. Hudson, tied and still, lying on the tiled floor. His eyes skipped back to Mary, remembering the penalty suffered the last time anyone dared lay a harmful hand on Mrs. H.  
Mary smiled.   
  
"Sherlock will be of no help to you tonight, John. Don't bother."  
  
"What do you want?" he growled.   
  
Mary's face neutralized, the long barrel of her gun hardly shaking as she continued to hold it strait out before her.   
  
"Her. That's all. Just her." She said, her eyes flicking over to the baby in her arms, then back to John. "She's mine, John. And I intend to take her."  
  
John shook his head, anger roiling in his stomach. "No."  
  
"What's that, John? You're going to stop me?" she said, her eyebrows raising in mock surprise. "Do you plan on trying to take her from me by force? How far do you think you will get before I lodge a bullet in your chest?"  
  
John quivered. The sound of her voice was shifting as a hint of american slipped into her accent.  
  
"Or perhaps you intend to have Greg finish me off when I leave? Does he think I don't know he's here?" She scoffed, holding Elanor tighter against her. The once fierce cries were becoming increasingly muffled as she was pressed harder into the fabric of Mary's coat.  
John's mind was racing. He had to get her away from Mary. His breath became rapid, thinking in horror that he may watch his daughter suffocate right in front of him.   
  
"She can't breathe!" He shouted, taking another step.  
  
Mary moved the gun slightly to the right and pulled the trigger, the muzzled sound making John duck.  
The shot passed through the wall beside the door and John turned to see Greg collapse in the frame with a groan.

"GREG!" John shifted in the direction of his friend, an army doctor's instinct kicking in.  
  
"Don't you dare move, John Watson."  
  
He froze, torn. He turned back to Mary, eyes wide.  
"You...you bloody phsycopa-"  
  
"Don't play with me, John. I'm fucking _finished_ with this! You will let me leave here with the baby and you will not try to stop me. Any attempt to do so and I will finish them all off, including you."  
  
John was filled with adrenaline, his fear and anger nearly reaching the point of blindness, but he tried to keep it in check. He swallowed his fear and carefully tried a different approach  
  
"Why, Mary? Why?" He asked. "You loved me. You...you did love me, didn't you?"   
  
Mary lifted her chin. "I thought so. I did. Perhaps I'd  grown tired of being alone. Saw some of whatever _Sherlock_ sees in you." She glared spitefully at him. "But you never loved me, did you? Not really. Not after  _he_ came back. Not after you found out about what I'd done to that _little nancy_. If he'd just stayed BLOODY dead, none of this would have to happen."  
  
John swallowed again, his lips shaking. There was no calming down the woman with the gun. Her words were gasoline.  
  
"You hurt him. You _killed_ him. How could I still love you after that?" He said, his teeth gritted together, his breath coming heavily out of his chest. "You're right. Maybe I never did love you. But that little girl deserves none of this!"  
  
Mary's eyes narrowed as she squeezed the baby even tighter. The cries were getting weaker by the moment.   
  
"Mary, you're killing her." He pleaded. "Let her go and leave. Just leave. I won't follow you. Please! Don't hurt her!"   
  
Greg groaned again, the vibration of it seemed to travel through the floors and up John's body. He was trembling, desperate to maintain self control. Mary scowled, stepping around the room and past John, slowly making for the door.   
  
"You don't fucking deserve to get the happy ending, John. I'm taking her. Dead or alive, she's  _mine._ "  
  
"And where do you plaann to take her, hm?" The slurred baritone of Sherlock's voice sounded through the doorway.   
  
Mary stopped, her eyes leaving John for a second. John's hands snapped up, his pistol aimed at her head. She looked back at him, her eyes as wild as a lioness, her breath suddenly unsteady as she snapped her head back and forth between the doorway and John.   
  
"Sherlock, I will finish what I started if you don't shut your mouth!" she shouted.   
  
John felt her panic as the odds shifted out of her favor. Sherlock appeared in the doorway, Greg's gun in hand. John looked him over briefly. He was standing on his own, the handgun steady in his fist.   
"You already triiied that. None too well, I mussst say. You Americans...too showy in your work."  
  
Mary flushed, anger overwhelming her. "Would you just shut up you  _fucking fairy_!"  
  
John felt his face turn red, rage rearing it's ugly head. "Mary, put the baby DOWN!"   
  
Mary remained facing Sherlock, venom in her voice. "You were lucky this morning. But not this time."  
  
The room exploded with sound as Greg's gun was fired almost in sync with Mary's. She dropped her own with a heavy 'thud' on the wood floor as she staggered back.  
John blinked, his head on fire with pain as his left eye blurred. Sherlock jumped across the room, stumbling toward Mary.

       John lurched forward as Mary released the baby from her grasp, the bundle of blankets falling from her hands. Time slowed as John threw himself forward to catch Elanor, his hands grabbing her as she slipped away from her mother's body. It was ungraceful and rough. She made no sound and he feared that their move had been made too late. Forgetting about Mary, he scrambled back and turned his attention to Elanor.  
        Her eyes were open, her little face red and tears on her tiny cheeks. She was breathing. John touched her little head, worrying for her fragile neck, her developing brain, her small lungs.  
Blood dripped onto her blankets. Was she bleeding? He couldn't see.  
He reached up and rubbed his eyes. When he retracted his hand it was covered in blood.  
'Not her, then.'   
He looked up to see Mary make a run for the door, one hand clutched over her dominant shoulder. Sherlock moved quickly; much more quickly than John had thought possible under the influence. He swirled around between John and Mary, forcing her still in an iron grip.   
She hissed violently,  
  
" _You bastard. I should have done it right years ago. You fucking twat."_  
  
Sherlock said nothing, the sound of his heavy breathing the only thing John could focus on.   
  
Then there were others. Feet thundering up the stairs and little lazer lights on the walls before settling on the torso of the woman he had once loved. Mycroft appeared, stopping at Greg. Blood pooled under his limp body and Mycroft frowned very clearly.   
  
"Get this man medical attention IMMEDIATELY."   
  
Two men broke away and Greg was lifted out of sight. John was hunched on the floor, his terrified daughter still clutched carefully in one arm as his other pressed against his head. He could hardly see through the river of blood that seemed to flow endlessly from his brow. Sherlock was facing away, toward Mycroft. He approached Mary slowly, his face a cold mask.  
  
" _You have made a very serious mistake, Annabella. "_  
  
Mary didn't move. She couldn't. The elder Holmes nodded to his brother, who released her. The agents of Mycroft Holmes moved in. She was escorted out the door within moments. John watched her disappear into the darkness of the stair. He fell back onto the floor, his legs finally giving out under him. Sherlock whipped around to look at him, eyes wide. He stepped and faltered, careening down onto his knees. Mycroft reached for him, but he crawled over to John, his face openly fearful.  
  
"Joohn? Oh, god, John. You're...."   
  
Mycroft's voice followed his brother, urging him to stay calm. Sherlocks hands flew up to John's head, looking for the wound. John looked up at him with one clear eye. He'd never seen Sherlock so afraid, his hands were trembling as he ran his fingers over John's head. John gasped at the pain as Sherlock touched the wound, and felt his friend recoil as if he had been burned by the sound.   
  
"It's alright." he said, trying to calm Sherlock. "It's just a graze. Head wounds...they tend to bleed a lot. I'll be alright."   
  
Sherlock made a strange noise. A choking sound in the throat. John looked at him, startled.  
Sherlock sat back on the floor, his bloodied hand covering his mouth. He looked down at Elanor, safely held in her father's arms, then back up to John.   
  
"John..." he said, his voice breaking.   
  
John didn't move, his mind feeling betrayed by what he saw. Sherlock turned his face away and buried it in the crook of his elbow. His shoulders shook gently. 

He was crying.

John felt utterly dumbfounded. He wanted to touch him, tell him it was alright. He couldn't seem to move. Shock gripped him.    
  
      Mycroft walked up beside him, kneeling down and wrapping an arm around his brother, leaning his weight against him. He whispered into Sherlock's ear.  
John couldn't hear what he said. The flat had become a flurry of activity. There was an investigation taking place all around him. Someone was with Mrs. Hudson, who was weeping violently into her hands. Photo's were snapped of the new bulletholes in the walls. Hands were on John's head, gauze pressed on the open wound. 

      A voice asked to take his daughter for medical attention. He let her go with shaking fingers. His eyes settled back on Sherlock and his brother. Mycroft didn't look at John, but he heard the man say his name as he ran his hand over his brother's back. It was the most caring scene he had ever witnessed between the Holmes brothers. Physical pain was nothing to them, but emotional pain was an unbearable weight. His comfort seemed to have an effect on Sherlock, who slowly calmed his breaths and eventually Mycroft stood, straitening his suit and staring down at John.   
  
"You'll be spending the night in hospital, John. Would you take care of him this time? I trust you understand what I am saying."  
  
John felt a lump in his throat. He nodded as best he could with the gauze held to his head.   
  
"I will." he said, his voice gravelly and thick. "I swear. I'm not leaving him."  
  
Mycroft nodded. He turned on his heel and faded into the darkness of the London night.  
 

 

 

 


	18. Healing

  Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, the lights of the hospital room burning bright over his bed.  
Monitors beeped beside him. He closed his eyes again with a groan. His head was splitting. Lifting his hand, he felt the tug of the I.V. in his arm and stilled.

"Sherlock?"

The detective's eyes flew open, the memory of the previous day flooding back over him. He sat himself upright and looked around.

"John."

John lifted himself from the chair where he had spent many of the previous night's long hours. His head was bandaged, but Sherlock noticed he seemed otherwise alright. He was still dressed in the checked shirt and denim he wore the day before, now carrying the stains of his head wound. In his mind's eye, he saw John's bloodied face before him. Sherlock's chest felt tight. He had been millimetres from horrible damage. Centimetres from certain death.  
A wave of nausea washed over him. Side effect of drugs or guilt? He tried not to give it thought.

"Elanor?" He asked, his voice sounding raspier than intended. John nodded, his hand coming to rest on the rail of Sherlock's bedside.

"She's alright. She's sleeping, now. The nurses are seeing to her."

He sighed and leaned back into the bed, letting his eyes fall closed.

"Sherlock, how are you feeling?"

He cracked open an eye and looked over at his friend before closing them again.  
"Like my head's been split open with a hatchet. It can't just be from the drugs."  
His eyes opened again in surprise as he felt a hand brush through his curls. John was looking at his hair, almost absently, and stroking his head. Sherlock blinked up at him, not sure why he was doing something so... _intimate._

"The knock on the head left you with a concussion. You've been under observation for the past 14 hours." He smiled at his friend. "You're looking much better, now."  
Sherlock relaxed under the soft touches, allowing himself to be soothed for a moment.  
Then his memory kicked, and he bolted upright.   
  
"Lestrade!"  
  
John put up his hands, trying to slow him down, but Sherlock would not be stopped. He pulled himself out of the bed, grabbing the IV line and yanking it out with a wince.  
  
"Woah, slow down! Sherlock!"   
  
He was already crossing the room, one hand holding closed his hospital gown as he went. John hurried in front of him, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Sherlock, you've had a serious blow to the head and yesterday you were pumped full of enough drugs to kill a horse. SLOW DOWN."

"Lestrade. He was shot, wasn't he? I saw him. Where is he?" He said, still trying to move past John to the door.  
  
"Sherlock, look at me.  _Look at me._ "  
  
His eyes met John's, stilling under the firm press of his palms.   
  
"Greg was shot through the shoulder. Luckily nothing major was hit. It passed clear through. He's out of surgery. Last I checked, he was still coming out of the anesthesia. Molly is with him. It's alright. He's alive, and he's going to be alright."

Sherlock slumped, suddenly exhausted. The weight of his decisions fell over him, crushing him underneath it all. He looked away, shame and failure all over his face.  
"Oh, John. I'm..I'm so sorry."  
  
John felt a sting of shock. He squeezed his friend's shoulders as he tried to turn away.  
  
"You're sorry?"  
  
Sherlock looked back, his eyes like a dagger to John's heart.   
"I am. John...I never should have left. Not without you. My plan...I was wrong. And you all suffered because of it. I should never have left without you."   
He reached up and touched the bandage on John's head, seeing what might have been instead of what was. A tragic death instead of a minor flesh wound. "I thought I was keeping you safe."

Something bit at the back of his throat. Losing John. That was a fate worse than any he could imagine.   
  
"Hey..."  
John's hand reached up and closed over his own, gently pulling it down between them.   
"This is not your fault. Mary... _Anna_...she tried to kill you. And I didn't leave her. I don't know why...I just...this is MY fault, Sherlock. It's been driving me mad." He swallowed, looking away while holding firmly to Sherlock's warm hand.  
"I'm so...I can't tell you how much I blame myself. I could have lost you. Again. I don't know what I would have done."  
  
John felt Sherlock release his hand and pull it away.  
He didn't look up.  
He couldn't.  
Of course Sherlock didn't want him touching his hand like that. Of course he didn't. It was the drugs that allowed John to touch him before. It was the drugs that caused him to be emotional. Of course.  
      He swallowed back the hollow feeling in his chest as a pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders.  
Blinking, he realized that they were Sherlock's arms, the feeling of his heartbeat pressing against him through the paper-thin gown, his warm breath on John's ear as he enclosed him completely. It took half a moment for him to respond, his own arms reaching around the thin waist of the man before him, holding him as tightly as he dared.   
  
"I couldn't lose you, John. You and Elanor." He sighed and pressed his nose against the side of John's head, breathing in the smell of the doctor's hair as his hands pressed against the firm muscle underneath the fabric of his shirt. 

John didn't reply. He couldn't think of a thing to say, so he opened his palms and ran them up Sherlock's back, his face pressing into the detective's neck. He felt Sherlock shiver as his fingertips grazed against open skin between the ties on his hospital gown. It was not intentional, touching his skin like that, but John didn't pull away. He let his hands rest there, his thumb grazing over a bit of raised skin. It took a a few beats for him to realize that he was touching a scar.  
He stepped back, looking over Sherlock's face. His friend appeared much more affable than usual, his features mellow until he saw the concern on John's face. Sherlock began to colour, wondering if he done something wrong  
  
"Sherlock...what happened to your back?"  
  
John watched his friend go from pink cheeks to white, his air changing as he stepped away from John.   
"Nothing. Why?"  
  
John saw his adam's apple bob, his eyes flick away. He didn't want him to know. Another secret pain.  
  
"I felt a scar." John insisted. "I don't remember you being scarred before. What happened? Who hurt you?" John felt himself filling with a familiar fire, the vigilante in him rising steadily as another part of him was swept up in further guilt. More than a year after Sherlock's return and John realized his much had changed between them for his friend to be capable of hiding an injury so large. And for so long.   
  
"No one. You're mistaken." He said, reaching back and pulling the gown shut completely.  
Sherlock cursed his own foolishness. He should have known John would notice, eventually. He would no doubt be repulsed by the sight of him. Sherlock's body was marked by more scars from the past two years than most amassed in a lifetime.

John, however, would not be put off.  
He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and forced him around, feeling his friend sigh and his head drop. John reached for the top lace and undid the first tie, then the next, and pulled it open.   
Sherlock waited. John didn't make a sound. No gasp, no anger, no sound at all. He looked at the waxy, tiled floor, blinking rapidly as he tried to gauge the doctor's response to his deformed back. The seconds passed in quiet agony. Then he sucked in a breath as he felt John's fingertips trace the lines that crossed his spine.   
  
"Good lord. Why...why didn't you tell me?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "It didn't seem-" he paused, choosing his words carefully. "relevant. When I came back. It would have served no purpose to tell you."  
  
"When you came back? Sherlock...God. I...you must have been in so much pain. And I...I hit you. I  _hurt_ you."  
  
Sherlock straitened, slowly turning to face John. He took in the expression of his friend, the guilt in his eyes as he stared up at him.   
  
"John, what did you do that I didn't deserve?"  
  
John looked away, but Sherlock reached out and took his chin in his hand, guiding him back.   
  
"I didn't realize what it would do when I jumped. I thought about it, I planned it, yes. But I didn't know what it would do to you. I deserved your wrath. Last night I saw a glimpse of what you must have felt." His voice dropped, a deep mumbling sound in his chest finishing his thought.  
"I couldn't have lived if it were you."  
  
John blinked, the air taken from his lungs as he stood under Sherlock's electric gaze. Silence fell between them, feeling the ever increasing magnetism that kept them locked together. For years it had sent them circling around each other, trapped in orbit. But now their gravity shifted, stronger than ever before, bringing them close to collision. John's heart pattered in his chest as he felt himself move forward, ever so slightly, toward his friend.   
Sherlock glanced down to John's lips: an intentional confession.   
  
The door to the hallway swung open and the sound of footsteps halting made them both look.   
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...interrupt you. I am here to perform a check up before you can be discharged, Mr. Holmes." She blushed slightly. "So nice to see you again."  
  
John's ears turned bright pink as Sherlock dropped his hand away from John's chin.   
  
"Doctor Younge. The pleasure is all mine."


	19. Trade and Nature

 

 

Sherlock lifted his eyes to the ceiling while Dr. Younge took his blood pressure.   
_'Boring.'_  
John had left the room to check on Elanor when the examination began, and Sherlock was glad to have the time to think. At least, he had hoped he would, but the Doctor who was now checking his pupils seemed determined to have some sort of conversation. 

"You two get into all sorts of trouble, don't you?"  
  
Sherlock sighed, feeling quite put-upon to have to respond to her.  
"THAT seems fairly obvious."

She looked at him, assessing his expression.  "I know I have no right to speak on it, however..."  
  
"However you feel it necessary, therefore I am obliged to listen to your, no doubt,  under-informed opinion?"  
  
She turned her attention to the still-tender area around his ear. 

"Are you always this much of an ass?"

He huffed a small laugh. "Usually."

She felt a smile cross her lips as she palpated the wound near his temple, brushing his hair out of the way to get a better look. "You're lucky, you know." she said. 

Sherlock jerked his head to look at her, causing her to press into the bruised flesh. She pulled her hands away.  
"Really, Mr. Holmes." she said, indignant. 

He winced. "That hurt!" 

"Oh, shush. Sit still." She commanded. He grumbled, but folded his hands into his lap and did as he was told. She continued her work quietly. He began to fidget, finding it hard to sit still. 

"What did you mean?" he asked, finally. 

"Hmm?"

"What did you mean when you said I was 'lucky'."

He felt her exhale as she stepped away from him, removing her gloves and tossing them into the bin nearby. 

"You are more than complicated, Mr. Holmes. And dangerous, by trade and by nature."  
  
He tilted his head at her. "Who have you been speaking to?"   
  
"Your brother wanted to make sure I was being thorough during the bloodwork." She replied. "And that I wouldn't raise any alarms during your exam based on your previous...injuries."  
  
Sherlock pressed his lips together. _'Bloody Mycroft.'_

"Your skull is still on one piece, which is fortunate enough. Apart from that, the drugs that you were given yesterday would have stopped the heart of any mortal man. You, however..."  
Another ghost of a smile passed over her lips.  
Sherlock narrowed his gaze at her. That news should not make a doctor smile. A fan...perhaps.  
  
"And what's more, you still have people who care for you." She picked up her clipboard. "Yes, I would say you are a very lucky man, indeed." She finished, turning away and penciling in a note on his chart. Her voice carried over her shoulder as she started toward the door.  
"You are free to go, Mr. Holmes." She turned back to him. "Be careful out there."   
  
"Touch difficult in my line of work."  
  
She hesitated, then pursed her lips before adding.  
" What I wanted to tell you. Don't bother flirting with people just to get a rise out of him." She said, inclining her head toward the empty chair where John had sat.  
"Between you and I, I believe that man has suffered enough."

Sherlock looked as his feet, bare and long, hanging above the shiny tiles. He supposed he deserved that dig.

The door slid shut. 

 

      Sherlock collected his clothes and dressed himself in the dirty, bloodied garments he had been brought to the hospital wearing. He was overloaded with thoughts, trying to understand everything that had happened the day before. What a mess it had turned out to be. Nearly an absolute disaster.   
Grabbing his suit jacket, he walked out into the hall and toward the room where John was waiting with Elanor.   
Doctor Younge had turned out to be a fairly astute woman. He felt the sting of what she had said, and he let it linger.  
The pain was good. The pain helped with his guilt.  
The guilt of letting all these things happen, and putting everyone he cared about into danger just because of who he was  _'By trade and by nature."_

He  _should_ feel lucky. He did. He always had. And he was tired of messing it up, even if meant trying to make a few more adjustments. But it wouldn't be easy. Vulnerability had long been a repugnant idea, handed down from his elder brother. Even for John, it wouldn't be easy. That is, if John wanted to see those changes at all.

He swallowed as thoughts of John whirled in his head. John, alive and relatively unharmed. John had saved him. And he had saved John. By mere fractions of time and space, they were both breathing. He felt his chest ache. He would never let John come into that kind of danger again, if he could help it.   
Before he knew it, he was standing outside the NICU once again.  He opened the door and his eyes fell on John and Elanor instantly.  
  
He was holding his daughter, who was reaching up for his face and gurgling happily. When Sherlock entered the room, his eyes raised to meet him. Sherlock felt something bloom in his heart. Something unfamiliar, but not unwelcome anymore.

He walked silently and looked down at Elanor over John's shoulder. Reaching out, he placed his hand gently on her little head, running his thumb carefully over her soft hairline. If he happened to have his arm wrapped around John's to do this, that was alright with him.  
John adjusted her and looked to him.  
"Here. She needs to see you, too."

     Sherlock dropped his jacket and lifted Elanor, laying her against his chest and running his hand in small circles over her back. She made tiny grunting sounds at his shoulder, lifting her head slightly and laying it back down. He smelled her hair. She smelled like soap. The nurses must have bathed her in the night. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head, surprised by how much of a comfort it was to him just to hold her.   
"Hello, little one." He said, softly. Her weight in his hands calmed his mind. An interesting discovery. "Did you know your daddy saved you last night? He's brilliant. Just like you." He kissed her hair again, eyes flicking up to John, who stood watching them. A small smile appearing on his face.   
  
"It all would have been for nothing, without you."   
  
Sherlock frowned. "This isn't the sort of story to tell on her wedding day." He said.   
  
John laughed, looking away and back.  "No, not quite." He said, licking his lips. "But I hope you'll have some good ones for her."

Sherlock's face softened, his head tilting as he tried to read between the lines of John's statement. "You...want me to be a part of her life? Now that things are safe? You don't want to find..."

John's smile faltered. "Find what? A normal life?" He scoffed. "I'm bloody rubbish at that, aren't I? Besides," he said, looking at Elanor in his friends capable hands. "She needs you. And...and so do I."  
  
Sherlock went silent.

     Earlier, in his own hospital room, he had felt like he had some control. Like he was the one treading on the thin ice of their relationship, but he also had the option to pull back and continue with the pleasant (albeit, emotionally stunted) status quo.  
He had longed to kiss John, yes. He would have kissed him twice by this point. But this was different. This was John  _telling him_ he needed him.   
_They_ needed him. Not just today. Not just this month. For the long run. He wasn't just a fill in. He wasn't just a band-aid. He was a part of this, now. He wandered into his own mind, looking to make a place for this changing understanding. 'Did that make them...were they now my...family? Could that be what was implied?'   
His heart was beating loudly. Then he realized that John was waving his hand in front of his face.   
  
"Sherlock? Sherlock. Are you alright?" His face was bunched with concern. He blinked himself back into the present reality, looking to John.  
  
"Yes." He said, smiling at the corners of his mouth. "Yes. I'm very well."

John let out a heavy breath, running his hand through his short, silvering hair. "Thank christ. I thought you had skipped out on me there. You do that sometimes, you know?"  
He reached for Elanor and Sherlock passed her back to her father. "The nurse told me we could take her home." He said. "I imagine you will be wanting to visit Lestrade?"   
Sherlock nodded.   
"Right. You go on, then. I will get her ready and come find you."  
  
Sherlock reached down and retrieved his jacket from the floor, then stopped and placed his hand on John's arm, looking softly at the man. John smiled back for a moment that felt all too brief, before his friend turned and dissapeared out the door. 

 

      Molly was holding Greg's hand when Sherlock entered his hospital room. He suddenly felt sheepish, filled suddenly with fondness for the detective as shame rushed through his blood. He absorbed the sight of the Detective Inspector lying in such a weakened state. That was not how Lestrade was meant to look.   
Greg looked at him with cloudy eyes, a slight grin hanging from his lips.   
Sherlock looked at the IV lines hooked to him. Morphine. He wouldn't be angry with that running through his veins. 

"Sherlock." He said, his voice a little dreamy.   
Molly looked up at him, releasing Greg's hand and walking to stand before him. He tensed, waiting for her to lay into him, expecting the bite of her slap or her words at any moment.   
She reached out and laid her small hand on his face.   
He blinked at her, confused as she leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

"You stupid ass." She said. "I'm so glad you are all okay."

He hesitated, nearly pointing out that her boyfriend was lying in a hospital bed with a shoulder wound that would likely leave him with a lifetime of pain, not unlike John. But he didn't. He bit his tongue and squeezed her shoulder.   
  
"Thank you, Molly."

They stepped apart and he walked to Greg's bedside. He offered up his hand in a sort of friendly handshake. Sherlock looked at him questioningly before accepting it.   
  
"Hell of a night, yeah?" He said, his eyes hazy and his tone far too happy.   
  
"Greg. I am sorry."  
  
He grinned, stupidly, turning his head. "Greg. You said Greg. You know my name, don't you?" 

Sherlock smiled at him.   
"You'll hardly remember this."

The DI started to laugh tiredly. "I don't think I will be forgetting the first bloody...THE FIRST bloody time...you remembered my name. Gabin, Gareth, Graham, Goyle."

Sherlock turned to Molly, who shrugged at him.   
"He's on a lot of painkillers."

"That's good. He won't be quite as happy when they down his dosage."  
  
The door opened and John stepped inside, carrying Elanor in her carseat. 

"JOHN."

The eyes of the room turned to Greg, who was giggling in his bed. "John, my friend. Look at you...you guys make such a nice set. Don't they, love? I think so. I thought so all along. Always eye-fucking at crime scenes..." He said, a high, uneven giggle escaping him as he reached for Molly, who was still standing halfway across the room. She blushed and crossed the floor to take his hand, pressing a kiss to his fingers.

"Shush, now Greg. You need to sleep."

He pulled her closer with is good arm. "You'll stay with me, hmm? My beautiful little scientist? Sexy in her white coat? Hmm?"   
She blushed a deeper shade, but didn't seem to be bothered by his mindless, drugged praise. 

Sherlock stepped toward the door, where John stood with pink ears. He loved it when John's ears did that. It was irritatingly endearing from the day they first met. He was a little glad that Greg had embarrassed him.  
"We'll get going, then. Let us know when he is feeling more like himself. And try to keep him under control." He smirked.

Molly nodded. "I will do. Umm, thanks for not filming him." She added, remembering Greg's little prank when Sherlock was in a condition very similar.  
  
Sherlock smiled. "I think I owe him that much."

 

 

 


	20. Fire side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a little extra to the end of this chapter after it's original posting, so if you missed something...it's probably here! :)  
> If you have any input, don't be shy!

 

   The taxi slid against the curb. The ride home had been silent, each man too full of thought to speak further during the drive. Elanor rode between them with wide little eyes open to the flickering scenes that passed outside the back of the cab window. It was not unpleasant to be quiet together.  
Once the car stopped, John unclipped Elanor and Sherlock paid the cab fare. They looked around suspiciously as they passed over the sidewalk to the front door, the feeling of unease still upon them.  
The night before.  
It was heavy on their minds. John looked to Sherlock as the unlocked 221B. He looked exhausted. John knew his head must still be aching, and was sure his body should still feel terrible. He considered how lucky he was to still be breathing. To be standing on his own. For his heart to still be beating. To be home.  
Sherlock opened the door and waited for John to break from his thoughts and enter, looking around at the street behind as he closed them inside.

"I need to see Mrs. Hudson." He said as they stood facing each other in the doorway.

John nodded. "WE need to see her."  
They turned toward her door and Sherlock led them through the dim light to knock at her flat. 

 

       Moments later they found themselves seated around her kitchen table as she poured them tea and placed a plate of biscuits out for them. She looked like she hadn't slept much, but her expression revealed her glad to see that they were all home and safe. She eyed Elanor in her little seat.

"Oh, John..." she said, wringing a dishtowel in hands. "I'm so sorry for...well..." Her eyes grew misty as she looked at the sweet little girl, who stared back calmly. 

"Mrs. Hudson," John said, standing and taking one of her hands in his own. "You have  _nothing_ to be sorry for. We are the ones who ought to aplogize. You never should have been put in that situation." 

She smiled at him, pressing the towel to her cheek with her free hand.   
"Not as though it was the first time. Oh, boys. I...I hope you'll still trust me to take care of Elanor." She said, her voice shaking.

Sherlock looked up from his tea. "I can't imagine anyone more qualified for the job, Mrs. Hudson. "

John smiled and let go of the dear woman's hand, leaning down to retrieve Elanor, who was suckling at her fingers happily. He lifted her gently and offered her to Mrs. Hudson. She smiled tearily, taking the baby in her arms. She laughed out a little sob and kissed Elanor's head. 

"You are a strong little one, aren't you dearest? Just like your daddies? Yes, you are." She said, rocking the little girl gently. 

Sherlock shot John an uncertain glance, wondering if he had heard. John looked calm and perfectly at ease, lifting his teacup and watching Mrs. Hudson babble lovingly at his daughter. John had said he wanted the three of them to stay together, but this still felt to Sherlock like a surprising assumption for her to make. Not that it was the first time. But, if John didn't mind...  
Sherlock relaxed into his chair, finishing his tea and sneaking a biscuit.

 

 Mrs. Hudson walked the three of them to the door, assuring them that she would love to bring them up some supper later on. Sherlock invited her to eat with them, but she declined.   
  
"You three have been through a lot. I think you need some time to yourselves." she said, a funny look in her eye as she spoke.   
Sherlock leaned down and gave her a kiss on her cheek, and she shooed him off down the hall. John led the way up to their flat.

At the top of the stairs they halted at a large, dark stain on the floor boards. They paused there, staring at the place where Greg's blood had pooled underneath his wounded body. John frowned, looking at the wall and finding the little spot where the bullet passed through. He ran his fingers over it while Sherlock opened the door.

The light of late afternoon came through the windows, the grey skies leaving everything a little gloomy. They stepped in and stood together a moment, looking around at the room where they had nearly lost each other the night previous.  
Aside from the bullet-sized hole in the wall, the place looked relatively normal. But it _felt_ different. Sherlock stole a glance at John, taking in the discomfort displayed on his face. He could almost hear the man's thoughts. His lingering anger for the non-existant woman he had married. The anxious look of 'what if' crossing his eyes.  
"Fire." He blurted.

John looked at him, confused.   
"What?"  
  
"Fire. I'll make a fire." He said, stepping toward the grate and digging through the bin for something to burn.

John blinked at him.  
"Alright. Yeah. That sounds good." He said, watching Sherlock hunt for a few logs to cheer the room.

He stepped off toward the kitchen. It was time to feed Elanor, who was starting to fuss in his arms. 

 

     Soon the flicker of the fireplace sent a comforting glow throughout the room. The sun was already beginning to set as John sat with Elanor in his chair. Sherlock had gone off to have a shower while he fed his daughter. He could hear the water running in the loo, the door left open a crack and steam drifting out into the hall. John took a deep breath, searching out the familiar scent of Sherlock's shampoo. He was glad he hadn't shut the door, if only because it displayed the same sense of unease that John felt. Hesitant to be alone. Not wanting to the other to be too far out of reach.   
He closed his eyes a moment, willing his shoulders to relax.   
He knew they were safer now than they had been in years.  
No Moriarty. No Mary. No more targets on their backs.  
But the lingering effects of having your child nearly smothered and your best friend taken and your home invaded, well, that might take a bit of time to move past. A little need for close proximity isn't too uncommon, he supposed.   
Elanor sighed in his arms, making him open his eyes and looked down at her. She was nearly asleep, fed and contented and safe once more. He took the bottle away from her lips and placed it on the side table, then ran his hand over her little blonde head, ruffling the wispy hair and smoothing it back down. He loved her so much. She was the one thing he had ever done right in his life, and he felt that truth keenly.   
'Although,' he thought, 'I think I can improve.'

Sherlocks footfalls in the hall broke his reverie. He looked at his own stained clothing and felt the need to clean himself as well. Dried blood, sweat and gunpowder. Not the best combination of smells. Sherlock re-appeared in the living room in pajamas and a t-shirt, rubbing a towel over his hair. John let his eyes wander over him while he dried his messy curls. The movements drew his shirt tight against his chest, revealing the trim body and curving muscle hidden underneath. He thought of the mosaic of scars that were kept on his skin. The ones he had known about and the ones he had seen for the first time that day. His lips turned down unconsciously as he thought of what his friend must have suffered. Suffered for them. Suffered for him.

Sherlock straitened his spine and tossed the towel over his chair.   
"I'll take her, John. You go clean up."

John offered a grim nod. "Sure. Thank you."

He stood and passed his daughter to him. She began to whimper, but Sherlock motioned his head toward the bathroom, urging him to go. So he went.   
The shower did do John good. The warm water and steam always helped clear his brain. He peeled off the bandages on his forehead and tossed them away before getting in, looking himself over closely in the mirror. The stitches that had been put in looked good. Clean and neat. But he would have another tell-tale mark on his body. He almost smiled at himself. He was in good company for that sort of thing. 

After a hot shower and a quick shave, he applied a new bandage to his head, covering the stitches. He felt like he could breathe again. Towel around his waist, he stepped into the hall and started toward the stairs. It was quiet, aside from the faint sounds of traffic and the crackle of the fire. The chairs at the fireside were empty, so he looked around the living room and his eyes fell on Sherlock and Elanor. They had moved to the couch. Sherlock was lying on his back, head propped on his union jack pillow and one hand on Elanor's back. Elanor lay soundly on his chest, her arms and legs flung over him and her tiny fist clutching his shirt. Her little body was rising and falling with the rhythm of her own small breaths and the larger swell of Sherlock's. They were both asleep. John felt his chest expand, the strings of his heart wound as tightly as the strings of Sherlocks violin.

He loved them.

He loved them both. It was as plain as the day. He realized dumbly that it always had been. He felt his stomach swoop as he said the words inside his head. It felt good. But he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do about it.

     John crossed them room to them, deciding with some regret that he should move Elanor upstairs to her crib. He tucked his towel tightly in place and leaned down over the sleeping forms to collect his infant daughter. As he carefully slid his hands around her, Sherlock stirred and woke. John froze a moment, seeing the warm, unguarded expression on his friends face as he opened his eyes to find John so close. He grinned shyly at Sherlock, who's eyes mirrored his expression of happiness before travelling down to John's torso and back up.

John swallowed. He tried to not to feel flustered by the stark nakedness of his chest under the quick gaze of his friend...the man he only just had the courage to admit to himself that he loved. It did no good. He could feel the heat in his cheeks. He was so obvious.

Trying to ignore his own feelings, he gingerly lifted Elanor.

"Just thought I would move her upstairs."

Sherlock hummed his agreement before closing his eyes again, the edges of his lips curving up. John hesitated, carefully watching the expression on the other man's face. Relaxed. Content. Beautiful.

He turned to take his daughter to bed upstairs.

 

 

 


	21. Imperfectly Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

Once John had left the room, Sherlock sat himself up on the sofa and furrowed his brow. 

John.   
  
John was everything inside his head. John was every sensation on his skin and every beat of his heart.  
It was gorgeous. Frightening. And it was still wrapped in uncertainty.  
Sherlock's headache began to drum at his temples again. He stood and crossed the living room to the kitchen, in search of painkillers for the uncomfortable weight in his skull. He rummaged through the unkept cabinet until he found what he was looking for, twisting the cap of the paracetamol and downing a couple without water.   
  
He looked around the empty rooms.   
  
The place where Mary stood. The place where John was grazed by a bullet meant to blast through bone and brain. The place where Mycroft appeared at the end of the showdown, only to be insufferably kind to him. The place where he had wept.   
He bit the inside of his mouth, the memory of his emotional weakness gnawing at the core of him. He wasn't sure he should feel as ashamed of the display as he did. After all, he was drugged out of his head. But that didn't soften the shame that Mycroft had been witness, once again, to another of his most vulnerable moments. A time when panic seized his heart and the world crashed down around him. It had felt like the self-imposed walls that had protected him were crumbling, leaving him exposed to the harsh pain of loving something.   
Or, in this case, loving  _someone._

A creak at the door made him jump, his thoughts shattered by an all-too familiar anxiety. 

"Sorry, dear. I didn't mean to startle you." Mrs. Hudson peeped around the door, a tray in her hands. 

Sherlock went and opened the door for her to pass through more comfortably. She went to the table and put down the dinner of cold roast beef, taking a good look at Sherlock who stood silently by the door. 

"Are you alright, dear?"

He looked at her and didn't bother to answer. She sighed and came to stand with him, offering him the comfort of her warm hand on his arm. She knew him well enough to know that her touch would not be unwelcome.  

"Oh, my boy. Why don't you just tell him?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped to hers, surprise that she would know what was in his mind. Mrs. Hudson smothered a grin, seeing she had hit on his thoughts perfectly and feeling rather proud of herself for doing so. She never believed he was much different from anyone else, at the heart of things.   
Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it, seeming to collect a line of thought before trying again. When he did speak, his voice was nearly a whisper. 

"I don't know how to do this. I'm...I'm not...I don't know if I can."

Mrs. Hudson's smile vanished, her eyes full of sympathy. 

"Oh, Sherlock. All you need to say is what's true. You've done that your whole life." 

His lips twitched upward at her. The sound of footsteps on the stairs above signaled John't descent. She patted Sherlocks arm and gave him a little wink before scurrying out the door and closing it behind her. Sherlock took a deep breath and walked toward the fireplace while he tried to manage the discomforting pressure in his chest.

 

     When John entered the room, his gaze fell upon his friend leaning over the fireplace, one hand supporting him against the mantle as he stared into the flames. The flickering light danced on the edges of his silhouette in the dim room. It appeared to John that he was deep in his own thoughts, something the doctor had seen a great deal of over the years. He paused and admired the detective a moment. His strong, lean frame that was so often neglected for the pursuit of the mind.   
He smiled absently, knowing already what his friends face would look like. The little ridge between his brows raised, his jaw set in determined thought, rolling over a problem with dutiful single-mindedness until the puzzle was solved. For years he had stolen glances at him while he was lost in that place. Memorized the lines around his eyes and the miniscule movement of the muscles of his face.   
John licked his lips and took a breath, setting his shoulders as if he were going into a fight.   
'Of course,' He thought, 'With Sherlock, you never really know.'

As he neared his chair, Sherlock's hand fell from the mantle and he turned around. John slowed his pace, then stopped in front of his chair suddenly completely unsure he had the courage to go forward. His eyes settled on a spot on the floor, torn between two choices.   
Sit, and carry on with a quiet night. Speak, and possibly change everything in your life.   
He knew what he wanted to do. But the comfort of normalcy...it was impossible not to be tempted by it.   
  
He sat.  
  
Immediately, he felt disappointed in himself. The heat of self-discovery had been so exhilarating. This settlement would not do. He let his gaze travelled along the floorboards to the feet of his friend, then followed the frame of his legs, up his body and met the eyes of the man standing before him. John swallowed, trapped under the appraising stare of the taller man. He had been right. His face looked exactly has he had imagined. Deep in thought, then. But not any thought. This was one of those moments when all the power inside that head was focused tightly on John. He was looking for something. He was reading John's nervous blinking and bobbing Adam's apple.   
He cleared his throat. 

"Elanor is sleeping." He felt the gravel in his voice as much as he heard it. "I, uh, I made sure the window was locked. Should lock the door, too. I know we...we don't have to worry anymore. But...well. Couldn't hurt."

Sherlock seemed to break from his thoughts, his eyes looking up at the door and his jaw tensing. He stepped past John, who turned to watch him flick the locks. He heard Sherlock sigh before he turned back and went for his own chair.   
He collapsed into it like a rag doll, his limbs falling loosely and his curls bouncing. John saw a look of misery sweep over his features briefly. 

"Are...are you alright?"

Sherlock looked at him silently. John had seen that look before. The night he had discovered Mary had shot Sherlock. They sat there, in those exact chairs and Sherlock had looked at him like he was missing the entire plot.  
And now there was that look again. That look. It hurt a bit to be on the receiving end. To be the idiot in the room. It was...it was...

And then it broke over him like water over a dam.

That look. All this time. 

His courage returned tenfold, suddenly realizing what it had all meant.   
In his mind the words rose out of the past. "You see, but you don't observe."  
Well, he was observing now.   
John's lips parted, his brow smoothed as he let himself understand. He sat forward, his gaze now carefully watching his friends. 

"Sherlock...how long?"

He blinked in rapid succession. John saw him battle with the same thoughts he had fought only minutes before. Forward or no? Ignore or pursue? Change or remain?  
He wasn't about to let it go. 

"Sherlock."

Sherlock looked down at his hands, which were now clutching the arms of his chair. He could practically see his heart beating through his chest.  
He knew. John. Knew.   
His palms grew sweaty against the leather of the chair. He closed his eyes as John spoke his name a third time, calling him out of hiding. 

"Since our first case." He said, barely  a whisper in the darkened room.

He heard a sharp intake of breath. Silence fell and he counted the seconds in which neither one of them spoke. 

"A study in pink, you called it."

Sherlock opened his eyes. John was leaning on his knees, staring keenly at his face. He took in the shock on the features of his friend. His dark blue eyes daring to look for the truth. Sherlock swallowed hard, finding it difficult to work the muscles in his throat. It felt tight. Everything felt tight. He nodded. John shook his head.

"How...how could it have been so long? Why...why didn't you ever... _tell_ me?"

Sherlock snorted. "I still haven't."

John sat back, slightly bristled. He set his jaw and lifted his chin, looking Sherlock square in the face. 

"Alright then. Go on."

Sherlock looked at the fire, a smile pulling on his lips at the clear challenge. Only John would make such a confession feel like a brawl. Only John. Perfect John.   
  
"You cannot force me into anything, Watson. Captain or not."

John breathed a laugh, irritated and incited by the strangeness of his friend. He licked his lips, nodding. 

"Right. Well...I know that's not true."

Sherlock looked as if feigning insult, but was truly amused. 

"What are you implying?"

John grinned. "Only that you are not as impossible as you think you are."

Sherlock smiled as John looked to the fireplace. His smile faded when John looked back. His eyes were darker than they had been, his demeanor changing as he bit at this bottom lip and looked the detective over in a way he had never seen before.

"Right. Well...I," he cleared his throat quickly, "I can't bother acting like this isn't what it is. The fact is... I've loved for so long that I'm not actually sure when it started ." 

Sherlock's hands loosening their grip on the chair. John pressed his lips together, frowning as he looked into his past. 

"I just didn't know it until it was too late."

For Sherlock, the room was suddenly airless. John continued, rubbing his hands together. 

"Or...at least I thought it was too late. But...you tell me. Is it?"

He could not believe what he was hearing. The straining pressure in his chest increased to what felt like the point of bursting. It was too much. John loved him. John loved him and was asking his permission to love him still. Asking Sherlock to love him back. 

There were no words. And if there had been, he didn't think he had the capacity to form a single one of them.

He leaned forward, his hands reaching across the span that had existed between them for so many years, and curved them around the soft skin of John's jaw, pressing his forehead against his friends.   
John made a little sound.

A laugh? A sob?

Sherlock could hardly tell the difference, his mind was blank, his heart suddenly trying to escape his body. He could smell John's shave cream and mint toothpaste and the familiar scent of his skin. His fingers travelled back into John's hair and he closed his eyes as he felt John's hands slide up to cover his own.   
He had waited too long for this. Far too long.

"I love you."

He winced as John let out a bitten laugh, and he lifted his eyes to see the expression that awaited him.

John's eyes were wet, but looking at him perfectly clearly. Sherlock felt the pressure in his chest let go as he took in the look of quiet joy on the face of his best friend. His doctor. His soldier. His.

"Just to two of us against the world." John muttered as he looked at Sherlock's parted lips.

Sherlock leaned forward and closed the space between them, pressing his lips gently  against John's. The man didn't hesitate to respond, pressing back as he let himself be overwhelmed by the sensation of thier first kiss. It was rather chaste; firm yet speculative, as if they were both unsure if the other would suddenly change their mind. As they parted, Sherlock appraised John's response. He felt himself starting to grin. He couldn't help himself. John gave him a questioning look, his eyebrows moving together. Sherlock didn't air for the question to take on words, and leaned forward to kiss him again. He slid his fingers through John's silvering hair and breathed in the smell of him while his lips spoke a language of thier own. 

John wasn't afraid. It had been written all over his face. And further suggested as the kiss deepened.   
  
Sherlock felt John's tongue flick gently against his lips. All the secret fantasies bubbled up in his mind as he opened his mouth for John to taste. He heard a moan from somewhere. John's hands wrapped themselves up in Sherlock's hair as the other man realized that the sound was made by his own throat.   
He felt himself blush, but John, who was currently kissing his lower lip reverently, didn't seem to mind. Their noses brushed against each other as they changed angle to press another kiss to the others mouth. 

"I didn't know you admired my lips so much." Sherlock said.

John chuckled as he kissed the corner of his lips greedily, already wanting more.   
  
"Than you're more of an idiot than I thought." 

Sherlock's deep laugh mingled with John's giggles and the pop of the fireplace. 

Sherlock's mood sobered slightly as he moved his hand back to John's cheek, rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin of the doctor's face.   
  
"You know I've never...I've never done this before" The heat in his cheeks was becoming mortifying as he tried to put into words his feelings. "I've not...been in a proper relationship. Not been in love. It's all outside of my expertise. I...I don't know...I just hope...I can be who you need me to be."

John's face changed, his eyes darkening as he spoke. "Sherlock. I need you to understand this. Okay?"  
  
He nodded and John continued, his fingers still brushing gently through the dark twists of Sherlock's hair.  
  
"You have  _always_ been who I needed. Right from the start. Day one, in the lab, you were who I needed." He paused, letting his friend take in the truth that had been in his heart all these years.

"All I want is for you to be you, and to let me love you. That's all."

Sherlock blinked.

"I love you, Sherlock."

"I...I love you, John."

"Good." He said. "Then shut up."

Sherlock's eyes widened as John lunged out of his chair and kissed him again, pushing them back into his armchair. Warmth spread through his body as he was momentarily dominated by the strength of the shorter man. He grabbed John around his waist and pulled him near. The need for his touch, his kiss, all of him, was suddenly overwhelming. The room was too warm. Hot. Too hot. Oh, but so right. 

He slid his tongue into John's mouth, shivering as the man made a deleciously sinful sound in his throat. "Devine." He thought, logging the full flavor of Johns mouth into his memory, focusing too much on categorisation and forgetting to participate a moment or two. As John pulled back and checked his expression, Sherlock realized he had been motionless for more than a few seconds.

"You alright?" John whispered, his quick breath slowing as he checked in. Sherlock smiled.

"Perfectly." He allowed his hands to roam along the hem of John's shirt and slip underneath. The warm skin felt heavenly under his palms as he skated them up the firm planes of flesh. John responded with a nip at his lips, mixing the intoxicating edge of danger into his otherwise soft kisses. Sherlock's heart beat warmer. He felt a sting in his eyes, desire mixing dangerously with sentiment far stronger than he'd ever experienced. He wanted John closer.  
Needed him closer.  
  
John wasted no time pulling Sherlock's tshirt up and over his head as he was dragged further and further down against his flatmate. His fingertips gently passed over every beautiful silver line of scar and sweet pale skin. Sliding his hands around the thin, muscular waist of his friend, he has never felt to joyful. Never so grateful to be in the arms of another human. Never more prepared to give himself over to the power of another. Only for Sherlock. Always, for Sherlock. 

He slid his fingers up the ridges that marked his back, revelling in the feeling of taut muscle straining under his hands. Thier mouths crashed as need became hard to ignore. He felt the impossible heat of Sherlocks body as he was pulled against him with a strength he had not experienced before. It was a heady rush for the doctor, to be so equally matched in physicality and emotion, so clearly loved by such a man. Sherlock's hips lifted as John pressed himself down harder, his mind swimming. He heard himself groaning gently as a wave of pleasure shot through him, his hips rolling forward in response, searching for more. The sound of the detective's rich voice rumbling against his mouth was almost more than he could bear. He grasped Sherlock's shoulders roughly, pulling him forward with much more force than necessary.

Too much.  
John flipped himself backwards and Sherlock tumbled heavily out of the chair on top of him.   
Realizing what he'd done, John lay on his back and broke into laughter while the confused detective tried to pick himself up from the heap of limbs and half-discarded clothing they had landed in.

 He looked down at John, concern melting into a warmth that he had never known before that night. It was the least perfect thing he could ever have hoped for, really. So unlike his fantasies, locked away in a dark corner of his mind. It was better. It was real.

He found himself unable to hold back, the sound of his own laughter mingling with John's as they lay tangled together on the floor of their flat. 

 

 

 

 

 


	22. Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy fluff!

 

 

Sherlock opened his eyes to the darkness of his bedroom. Moonlight illuminated the end of his bed, falling blue and cold through the window.   
He pushed himself up onto his elbow and looked around.   
  
He was alone.   
  
He glanced beside him. The abandoned pillow next to his own was still dented. The duvet was still warm. The room still smelled like John. But the man himself was unexpetedly missing. Sherlock felt a surge of panic that he knew was illogical, but it didn't keep him from throwing back the blanket and stepping out of bed to find his flatmate. He took a few steps before looking down at himself.  
  
He was stark naked and suddenly self-conscious.  
  
Stopping at the foot of his bed, he began searching about for his missing underpants. Charcoal in a dark room. Not the easiest to find. Normally, he would remember exactly where he placed things, but these had been lost in a memory far more focused on what else was going on, and at no point had he been even vaguely interested in where his pants ended up. A little thrill passed through him as he let his mind dip back to earlier that night, finally locating the missing garment half-hidden under his dressing table. He slipped them on and opened the door. 

Dim light filtered in from the living room. Sherlock felt his shoulders relax as he passed down the hall to find John feeding Elanor back in his chair. He was wearing only his joggers, his hair messed and wild, and contentedness on his features. He looked up as Sherlock entered the room, his face brightening as his eyes roved over the nearly-naked man in the doorway. Sherlock felt the self-consciousness fade as he enjoyed being openly ogled by his friend.   
  
"I wondered where you'd gone." 

John shrugged his shoulders, speaking lowly as his child's eyes began to close.   
"I heard her through the monitor. I hadn't fallen asleep, yet."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "How long was _I_ sleeping?" he said, looking around for a clock. 

John chuckled silently. "Maybe 20 minutes. You started snoring almost immediately." 

John watched the face of his friend contort into offense at the idea of his snoring so directly after sex. He felt his heart swell as he watched him cross his arms and lean against the door frame with a set pout, hardly able to believe he was privy to the soft, plush texture of those lips or the firm lines of that frame. He smiled as he looked back at his daughter, making funny little sounds as she drank. 

Sherlock grinned when John looked away. He enjoyed the teasing. John was the only person who'd ever teased him, and he was terribly fond of it. He watched the two of them a moment longer before looking around the flat. He felt a prickling sensation slowly cover him; an apprehension about putting Elanor back upstairs. It felt too far away. The night before a locked door had done nothing to stop Mary from entering their home and coming within minutes and inches of destroying their lives.  
Perhaps she was away in custody, but the discomfort left behind kept sneaking into his mind, and he knew it bothered John.  
  
He pushed himself off the frame and stalked silently across the room to Elanor's bassinet, lifting it easily and carrying it back to his bedroom. He saw John watching him in his edges of his vision as he went. In the comfortable darkness of his room, he picked a nice space at the end of his own bed to place the little one. Then he went and pulled the curtains over to veil the light that fell through the window. The floorboards creaked behind him and he turned to find John standing just inside the door, Elanor sleeping in his arms. He looked gorgeous. Sherlock knew he was in far over his head with his feelings for John, but it felt good. It felt right.   
He gestured to the bassinet. "I thought...it might be better for all of us if she stayed in here tonight." 

He could see John's smile in the shadows of the doorway. He didn't say a thing as he walked in and carefully laid her down in the little bed. Her arms sprung up as he lowered her head, relaxing again when he ran his hand over her hair and covered her lightly with her purple knitted blanket. He stared down lovingly at her tiny sleeping form, little lips still suckling on the empty air, little fists closed and raised beside her head. He felt Sherlock move beside him, his attention focused on the same place. John looked up at his friend, who was staring down at Elanor with such softness that it made him ache.

He had hoped it would be possible; that he had not been mistaken in believing Sherlock would love his child. He'd seen a difference in him from the first day of her life, when he saw her in the hospital for the first time. There had been something very different about him at that moment, something that had shown itself more and more frequently as time went on. And now it was painted all over his face. He loved Elanor. She would not be the child of a broken family. Her life would know more love than most, with Sherlock as a guardian.   
And so would he.   
  
John reached out his hand and ran it across Sherlock's back, feeling the rough scars and the smooth skin under his palms. He felt the man respond to his touch instantly, moving himself closer to him. John leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder, relaxing quickly into their newfound intimacy as his hand curved around the other mans waist, holding him gently. He felt the press of a kiss to his head and looked up to be greeted by shining eyes. He let his gaze drop to his mouth and back up. Sherlock leaned down and kissed John languidly, the sensation still feeling so new and yet somehow, so comfortable. He drew back and reached for John's hand, leading him toward the bed. They crawled in, pulling the duvet over and instinctively fitting together. Sherlock laid back on his pillow, his arm around John who rested his head against his chest. Sherlock felt him sigh, his friends arm draping around his waist heavily, the humid warmth of their bodies bringing comfort to both men.

They were silent, nothing but the sound of breathing and the steady beat of several hearts to fill the room. John's breaths fell into a deep rhythm, his weight settling steadily against Sherlock.  
Sherlock's eyes began to close, lids dragging lower and lower, his muscles far more eased than they had felt in years. Soon, he drifted off into the warm darkness of sleep.

 

John woke slowly, stirred from his slumber by the sound of tapping.   
Morning light filtered brightly into the bedroom, only vaguely obscured by the drapes. He took a deep breath as his eyes adjusted to the light, his hand sliding over the warm, smooth skin of the person who was sleeping half-draped over him. His vision settled on the slackened face next to him, dark curls set in a mad mess against fair skin and angular features. He smiled sleepily. Sherlock looked like absolute peacefulness as he slept, his dark lashes fluttering and his breaths moving rhythmically through parted lips.   
He couldn't remember ever waking up so happy. Then he heard it again.   
Tap, tap, tap.   
He slowly moved away from his bed mate, shifting his body out from under the weight of Sherlock's limbs.   
Tap, tap, tap.   
Sherlock rolled over, but didn't seem to wake. John sat up and peeked over at the bassinet. Elanor was still asleep. He rubbed his hands over his face and fixed his pants as he stood. He looked around the room before reaching for the door, looking for a weapon...just in case. Although, he felt quite sure he knew what that tapping might be.   
He opened the door to the bedroom and was met with Mycroft Holmes, formally dressed and umbrella in hand. John crossed his arms over his bare chest, looking deeply displeased to have been woken from his cocoon of warmth to be faced with the elder Holmes brother.  
Mycroft's eyebrows lifted slightly, as though surprised to find John looking so comfortable opening the door to his brother's room at 8 in the morning. 

"Doctor Watson."

"Mycroft."

"Wake my brother, would you? It's time for a little chat."

A muffled voice sounded from inside the room. "John, tell Mycroft it's rude to disturb people so early in the morning."

Mycroft leaned his head over John's shoulder and spoke back, directly.   
"Sleeping in, brother dear? Very unlike you. I expected a little more alertness, considering how easy your flat is to get into."

Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow and glared as his brother. 

"Exceptionally easy when you have the key. Go. Away."

Elanor's little cries rose from the cradle. John sighed and uncrossed his arms, going to collect his daughter. Sherlock sat up and stretched with a groan while Mycroft shook his head. 

"How terribly domestic. Meeting time. Living room in 5, hmm?"

He disappeared from the doorway, leaving John and Sherlock to look at each other and exchange eye rolls, snickering at the terribly serious man currently waiting down the hall. 

 

They took a full 10 minutes to make it to the living room. Mycroft was staring at his pocket watch with a look of severe disapproval, seated in Sherlock's chair. John held Elanor against his chest, wondering what news Sherlock's older brother had come to their home to tell them at this time of the morning. It was a little unsettling.   
Sherlock clearly felt the same way, but played it off as irritation at being woken up too soon. He refused to go sit without a mug of tea, standing in the kitchen and ignoring his brother loudly while waiting for the kettle.   
A knock sounded at the door directly before Mrs. Hudson's head popped into the kitchen. 

"Good morning, boys. I brought up a batch of scones for yo-oh! Mycroft! What are you doing here so early?"

Mycroft pasted a false smile on his face. "Debriefing. If these gentlemen can compose themselves before my meeting with the American...well. Never mind that. Scones, you say?"

Mrs. Hudson took the invitation and bustled into the room, offering the tray. Mycroft took one, producing a napkin from his pocket and picking at the pastry while he waited. She turned back to the kitchen, her smile spreading like butter as she looked at her boys.   
John was feeding Elanor at the table. Sherlock was standing by the kettle, his eyes continuing to fall toward John. There was a little smirk on his face. Mrs. Hudson walked over and placed the tray on the table.   
"I can take her, John. You go visit with Mr. Government over there. " 

John looked up and smiled at her. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She noticed that he kept stealing glances at Sherlock as well. She gathered Elanor in her arms and took the bottle, settling into a chair to continue feeding the little darling.   
  
She had wondered all evening if Sherlock would finally own up to it all. For years she had known about their feelings. It was as plain as the nose on her face. Only they seemed to miss it.  
The loud thump on her ceiling the night before had made her jump, ready to race upstairs and see what the fuss was over. Luckily, she waited. The soundproofing was very poor between the flats, and it didn't take long for her to figure out that the men upstairs were certainly not fighting.   
What she did overhear, she kept to herself. 

 

Once the men were assembled in the living room, Mycroft finishing off Mrs. Hudson's scone while John sat in his chair opposite with Sherlock perched on the arm, the news was shared. 

"Gentlemen. I assume you know why I am here."

John nodded and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft continued. 

"Doctor Watson," He said, reaching into his inner jacket pocket and producing a thick envelope. "These are the anullment papers. As you were married to a woman who did not legally exist, the separation will be quite simple."

John leaned forward and took the envelope from Mycroft's hand.   
"Thank you. But you didn't come here to hand-deliver my anullment papers."

He offered John a stale smile. "Of course not."

Sherlock huffed impatiently. Mycroft looked at his brother sternly and carried on. 

"I came to impart the details of Ms. Morstan's deportation. She will be leaving British soil within 48 hours and handed over to the American Government for prosecution. I don't imagine they will be terribly forgiving to her. She has been responsible for a great deal of international tension over the past eight years."

John's fingers tightened around the papers. They relaxed when Sherock's hand landed on his shoulder. 

"That is really all you need to know, at this point. Doctor Watson is now the sole parent to Miss Elanor Watson, unless an adoption is arranged. In the meantime, I will let you get back to playing house." 

He stood and straitened his suit. John stood and offered his hand to Mycroft, who looked down at it with no little astonishment. He lifted his chin and looked down at John before taking it and shaking it firmly. 

"Thank you, Mycroft. Really."

The elder Holmes nodded silently and glanced at his brother, who looked on approvingly. Then he collected his umbrella and strode to the stairs, where Anthea stood waiting, mobile in hand.

Sherlock looked to John. 

"I suppose he is tolerable, at times." 

John smiled. "At times."

They closed the door and went to join Mrs. Hudson and Elanor at the table, suddenly both very hungry. She looked at them fondly.

"I suppose you two will be going out again, now that all this is over?"

Sherlock nabbed a scone and nodded. "Naturally. It's time to get on with life, is it not?" He asked, looking to John. 

"It would be nice to get back out there. Somebody is going to have to take care of things with Lestrade out of commission for a while."

Sherlock frowned. "Who do you think they'll put in charge with him out? Lord...not Donovan, surely?"

John chuckled. "Oh, she would love that, wouldn't she? I think we'll have to go ask him, ourselves. His mood should be worse, today."

Mrs. Hudson jumped in. "Oh, dear Gregory. I will make up a little something for you to take to him. He is such a lovely man. You two promise me you'll go see him today."

They looked down at her, eyeing them sternly as she held the baby. They both nodded without hesitation. 

John turned his attention to the papers in the envelope as Sherlock made up a tea for him. They were all ready, with little sticky notices next to the spaces where he was meant to sign. He started to look around for a pen, when one appeared in front of him, held out by the steady hand of Sherlock Holmes.   
He took it and signed quickly on each of the pages. Then he folded them up and stuffed them unlovingly back into the envelope.   
It was done. John Watson was a free man.

 

 


	23. Life flows on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this tiny little chapter is the end.  
> I'm not sure if the story is a success or a flop, but it's certainly been an adventure navigating this with you all. I thank you immeasurably for reading and offering ideas, insight, corrections, comments and encouragement. It's been fun. xoxo.

 

 

    Two weeks later, John sat at the living room desk, staring at his laptop screen for the first time since he moved back into 221B.   
His mind rolled over the story in locked there, images of pain and heartache and confusion flashing through him, leaving their residue on his features. This would be a difficult story to tell, but one more than worth it.   
He looked at the man who sat across from him, deeply engrossed in in the details of their latest case. The light of the fireplace fell warmly upon him, making him look timelessly handsome, in John's opinion.  
His gaze moved fondly from the crease between his eyebrows to the scowl on his lips to the way his eyes flicked back and forth over the photo's that Sally Donovan had brought to them the afternoon previous. John felt his lips quirk into a grin, remembering the embarrassment in her voice, seeking the help of a man whom she had spent years condemning.   
John had never seen her so sheepish, even after Sherlock's unexpected 'return'. 

All the better that she had walked in on them snogging in the living room. 

 

The door had opened unexpectedly and Sally had frozen stock-still at the sight of Sherlock groping John's backside while kissing him senseless in the middle of the flat.

They had broken off and looked at her with a great deal of surprise at the intrusion. Sherlock recovered first, naturally, releasing his friend and looking dark and imposingly toward Sally, his displeasure evident.  
John had gaped at him, finding it incredible that he could look so menacing and serious while his hair was ruffled and his lips slightly swollen from the ministrations of John's own hands and lips. 

"What are _you_ doing here?" He asked, his voice deep and angry.

Sally blinked at him, her mouth working without sound before she spat out something close to a sentence. 

"I was...your landlady...she let me in."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze, slipping his hands into his pants pockets.   
"Obviously."

Sally looked to John, something akin to smugness showing itself. "It's true then, yeah? You two finally making a go of it?"

John crossed his arms. "Is that surprising?"

Sally almost laughed a moment, but choked on the sound when Sherlock caught her eye. He looked furious at her for daring to exist, let alone disturb them and imply any sort of mockery toward his relationship with the other man. She looked at the floor, controlling her expression before meeting their eyes again.

"It is and it's not. I mean, we all thought you two were together years ago. Then...well, then you weren't and I guess we all sort of thought you never would be. But...well, I owe about 50 quid to Greg, now. Thanks for that."

Sherlock looked to John, noting the light of humor in his eyes at Sally's little speech. He relaxed slightly, still unwilling to forgive her for disturbing a truly enjoyable embrace with his doctor.  
They had been making the most of their time alone over the weeks, but even then it was not nearly often enough that Elanor slept longer than an hour or two at a time during the day. IF she didn't offer him a decent reason for her presence soon, he was liable to toss her out a window.

"So the door was opened for you, and you entered. That's all well and good, but it doesn't answer my question. WHY are you HERE?"

Sally bit the inside of her cheek. John cocked his head to the side as he watched her fidget, enjoying that he could see the evidence of her years working closely with Lestrade coming out in her nervous behavior.

She looked at Sherlock, setting her shoulders. "I...I could use your opinion."

Sherlock studied her, letting the silence build uncomfortably. She continued hesitantly.

"It's a...looks like a homicide. Victim a middle-aged sto-"

"Can't." He said.

John's head whipped up at him. Sally closed her mouth tightly and looked him over before speaking again.

"Can't? Or won't"

He looked her over. "Both. Quite busy at the moment." He reached over and grabbed a handful of John's bum, making him jump and his cheeks turn as red as an apple.

She nodded, disappointment clear. "Alright. I get it." She said. Silence fell over the three of them as they watched her work up to what she wanted to say.   
"Look..." she offered, "I know I haven't always appreciated what you do."  
She let her eyes settle on Sherlock, her pride greatly diminished by her struggle without Lestrade to lead the investigation.  
 "And I haven't always been all that kind to you. But you have to understand. I was trying to protect my boss. You were pretty wild then. At the beginning. I thought you were going to get him sacked. But I'm...I should never have called you a freak."

Sherlock appeared unmoved, but John noticed his jaw working back and forth slightly. He was considering it. 

She asked again, less certain of his reply this time.   
"Sherlock, would you please come?"

He looked her up and down.   
"Not in the police car. I'll be right behind."

She smiled and turned away, hurrying down the steps from which she had appeared minutes before. John looked to Sherlock, pleased with his answer to her.   
"You are a good man."

Sherlock screwed his face into an indecipherable expression at which John could not help but chuckle at warmly. He stretched up onto his toes and placed a little kiss on his cheek. 

"Are you coming with me?"

John stuffed his hands into his pockets. "We can't bring our child to a crime scene."

Sherlock smiled and went to the door, calling down the stairs.

Moments later, the two of them were charging down the steps. Mrs. Hudson waved them out of the flat, knitting in hand, Downton Abby on the telly and Elanor asleep in the room above. They were off once again, the thrill of the hunt running through their blood and the promise they had made to each other fresh in their minds.   
Safely.  
They would keep each other, and return to Elanor, safely.

 

John emerged from his memory to realize that Sherlock had stopped working and was looking back at him.  
He was grinning, his cheeks touched by a hint of pink at the adoring gaze he was suspended under. 

"How goes the story?" He asked, the softness in his voice causing warmth to break through John's chest.  
John cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair, glancing at the blinking cursor where no words had yet bothered to flow. 

"Good." He said, his smile lighting his face as he freely admired the man sitting opposite himself. "Yeah. Really good."

**Author's Note:**

> Glad to be sharing in a community of writers! Comments are welcome :)  
> I hope that you enjoy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [John's Favourite](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8925070) by [Vvulpes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vvulpes/pseuds/Vvulpes)




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